For Love's Sake
by Pumita
Summary: This is an alternative ending to The Darkness. Tessa has survived, Richie has become an immortal, Amanda is back and new friends and enemies, mortal and immortal, enter their lives. Duncan and Tessa have to face what it means to love each other.
1. Chapter 1

The quiet beeping of an infusion pump by her bed roused Tessa once again and she opened an eye. Surgery has ended hours ago, the anesthesia had worn off in recovery. A sterile, monotonous, dove-pastel wallpapered room, with white curtains, partially pulled on the off side of her bed, greeted her sense of sight once again.

_Did you really expect to see something different this time? This is the room the attendants brought you – settled you in after your surgery. You're supposed to be resting not critiquing the décor._ Her subconscious mind replied, a bit snarky.

"_Something is different this time though_" her conscious mind thought back in counterpoint, "_Light – reflecting from somewhere"._ Turning her head brought an unexpected ache to her side and she winced. _The window – it was dark before – there light now – it's finely morning._ The flood of light that greeted her eye was painful and she shut it tightly against the photonic assault. _Even light hurt now – why can't it be gentle?_ She needed something gentle by her side – not the infusion pump which beeps intermittently, not the I.V. lines which she was tethered to – she needed Duncan's touch.

_Sleep – try to sleep_, the subconscious echo droned once again. _Sleep will make it all go away._

"_No – I don't want to go there again – not again."_ She moaned, almost a whisper, as she began to drift off once again.

An explosion – then another! Two shots rang out in rapid succession, the space between measured in a fraction of a heartbeat – her heartbeat. Over and over again the scene replayed with crystal clarity – like some macabre clip from an internal horror movie she could not shut out. But this wasn't a movie – it was her life, and it had just about ended. The shooting, only hours old, was happening once again.

The boy – scarcely a teenager – shaking – uncertain, shouting, demanding their money – anything, everything!

"What?! Is this it?" A holdup going bad – fear – No, terror in his voice – death in his outstretched trembling hand.

"_Tessa, you have always had a comeback to what Life throws at you. Why didn't you just–", _a half-dozen "_**Should-a-would-a-could-a's**_" surfaced, then a hundred more. "_Throw your purse - hit the ground – attack him – I could've done –"._

"_**Nothing! **__There wasn't time,"_came the reply from another corner of her being. There never is. _"There wasn't time – time is your enemy. It always will be."_

"_No – wait _–"A flash of light from the barrel – the explosion! _"Richie was closer to him then I was_. _He must have seen his finger tighten on the trigger"._ His arm had suddenly been in the way of a bullet that had already been fired – suddenly reaching out to knock her to the ground, and suddenly pierced! That first shot, aimed squarely at her chest, had struck the outstretched arm, shattering the thinner ulna bone, but was deflected before it had struck the right side of her chest and arm. The second shot had hit Richie in mid motion catching him square in the chest. As the report died, Richie had collapsed against her, throwing them both to the ground.

_An Explosion!_ This time it wasn't the gun, but her world – _her world was exploding around her._ Blood spattered her face, her clothing. Stunned –only half hearing and half seeing as the teenager ran, she felt the slick wet sensation of blood covering her arm and hand.

"_Am I bleeding? Was I hit?" _There was pain in her chest, her side, her arm as she struggled in vain to sit up. "_Richie_?" her voice all but a thin whimpered. "_Had she felt him gasp_?"

Richie, partially draped across her – blood running from the gaping wound in his chest and arm, mingled with hers.

Her shock benumbed brain fought through the pain and she propped partially up on her uninjured arm as Richie's head slid to her lap. She heard him draw his last mortal breath.

"_Time is your enemy," _she heard another half of her submerged self chide. "_It can never be your friend – you are mortal – you are dying._"

"_No, Richie was there, he saved my life! I'm alive – here and now. Whoever you are you can't take that from me. I'm alive I say!"_

This had been close. Too close. Close enough for all his fears to surface again. Four hundred year old pain arising from deep inside his heart with the force of an iceberg finally free after centuries hidden below the frozen water. But that was Tessa. The same Tessa that made him feel young every time he looked at her … every time he touched her… Tessa, she is going home … A timid smile crossed his worried face for a micro-second at the thought of what was to come._ Better focus on what you have to do_.

"Access denied" the computer returned once again.

How he hated those two words! What password could a lunatic like this use? _Come on … Tessa will be waiting … Focus. _"This will happen again, and again, and again" he'd told her once.

"I know," had been her simple acceptance of a life she could only be a temporary guest to. Then, why couldn't he accept it now? He knew why. This time it had been too close. This time he had admitted to himself that it was not a question of _if I lose_ her but merely _when I lose_ her. And he was too tired. Maybe the loss of Darius was just making him feel nostalgic … _Tessa … Focus… You are wasting precious time _…An explosion – then another! Two shots rang out in rapid succession, the space between measured in a fraction of a heartbeat – her heartbeat_. Run, move, do something!_

Hands – reassuring hands were suddenly there in that same instant – hands reaching out to touch her, to heal her spirit, to make her world whole. The highlander was by her side – Duncan MacLeod. Carefully lifting Richie from across her, he laid him beside her.

"Duncan, he's dead – it all happened so fast. Richie –"

His hands moved swiftly to examine her, worry clouding his features. "Shh, please don't try to move or speak, Tess. I'll get you to a hospital as fast as I can." As carefully as he could, he scooped her into his strong grasp.

"But Richie –"

"I'll get him in a moment. Let me get you settled in". As carefully as he could, he lowered her into the seat and secured her, then popped the trunk and fetched Richie.

"What are doing with him, Duncan?"

Closing the hatch he quickly swung into the car. "Richie will become immortal now. We all knew he was destined for this someday – just not this way, and not so soon." Duncan shook his head. "He'll come back eventually, and he can't be seen like this at the hospital. You need help now – we can't wait for him." _Because you won't come back, _his unspoken thoughts added a silently period to the end of his cold fear.

"_Time - ,"_ the voice chimed in her thoughts_._

"_Leave me alone,_" she snapped to her unseen mental specter. "_Duncan is here – with me. My world and my time – I have time with him now."_

"_You are mortal"._

"Get out!_"_ she moaned audibly.

"Are you in pain?" The male voice queried quietly.

She opened her eyes to slits. She was in pain, but not the kind an injection could ever make go away. The center of her world had been fractured by a bullet this night, one whose lethal trajectory had been deflected by a soon-to-be immortal; one that had threatened to forever separate her from her highlander, her unswerving gentleman, her patient immortal lover. No one could ever understand that kind of trust, intimacy, the secret he had shared with her – the one she too now had the burden of guarding so ardently with him. Her pain was for an immortal. "_Oh God, Duncan, where are you? I need you so now."_ Looking up to the young male nurse she forced a wan smile. "Yes," she replied weakly, "I do ache. I could use something to help me rest more comfortably."

He obliged her with an injection into her I.V. line.

_Maybe I can get some uninterrupted sleep, at least for a while._

"_Time," the faint echo sounded._

But the voice was too late to catch her as the drug took effect_._

Sergeant Richard Berry's pencil paused in mid mark; he flipped the heavily noted pages back and forth, adjusted his glasses then exhaled. Tapping the well-worn eraser against his furrowed brow he looked up to Richie once again.

"I know you're giving me all you've got, but it's still not a lot to go on. A Caucasian male, maybe 16 to 18 years, cap pulled down so only his face showed in the streetlight."

"A few curls stuck out on one side – I think they were a reddish color. And then there's the jacket – I couldn't miss that – it had a large Indian head on it. The hair," and he gestured down the middle of his head, "right down the middle."

"A Mohawk," Duncan supplied once again, casting a frustrated glance around the Spartan walls of the cramped office. They had already been over the entire story more times than he cared to remember, and still this conversation was only going in circles. _Why are we still sitting here? You have an eyewitness – why aren't we doing something to find the man that almost killed my Tessa?_ Duncan ran a hand over his face and silently told himself to calm down. They had been here for hours, the night was almost over and he was very tired – more than just tired, he was emotionally exhausted.

"Ok, Ok, I've got the jacket already. So the jacket is, uh, the only really unique think about this attacker." Sitting back, his chair groaned as the dry wood shifted ever so slightly. "Son, if I were that attacker, and knew that this was the only thing that could identify me, I would lose that jacket as fast as possible in the fire".

Richie rubbed his tired temple, his half zipped jacket gaped slightly, then bouncing to his feet, gestured wide with an arm. "That's all I've got man. It happened so fast, and he was gone just as fast."

The back of MacLeod's hand bumped purposefully against Richie's side and he sat down once again.

"You're lucky to be alive, Richie," he pulled off his glasses and cleaned a smudge. "When someone with a gun panics, they usually don't stop with one shot. I want the name of that guardian angel that must have been standing next to you. You've given me all you can now. I'll get a statement from Tessa when she's able, she may have seen a little more."

"Yah," Richie snorted absently. _A lot more,_ he thought, rolling his eyes. _She saw me die - I doubt if anything could top that._

Duncan's shot him a sideways knowing glance. _Keep a lid on it. You're lucky his glasses are off and he's just as tired as we are._

Richie rubbed his eyes with the palms of both hands, then exhaled, exasperated.

"Where do we go from here, Sergeant?" Duncan leaned forward. "He's out there somewhere right now. He may try to kill someone else. You must have a patrol in the area that could be searching?"

"More than one." He put his glasses back on. "Before this gets any older I'm going to put out an APB for this guy. People who are this freaked out make mistakes. Just maybe one of my people will get lucky and spot this guy. It would help if I had the name of your guardian angel." He rose, shaking his head. "If they see anyone fitting this description – even in general, we can 'invite' them in to clear them, as it were." As he started toward the door, Duncan and Richie rose to follow. "You two just wait here. I'm going to get our sketch artist in here. That way my people will at least have something visual to go on. Officer – " he called to a young, tall man, as he leaned out the open door, "Would you go grab our sketch artist – I saw him down the hall a couple hours ago, third door – left," waving him in the direction with the report in his hand. "And bring something hot – a coffee – whatever is down there, for these people. They can use it."

Duncan and Richie settled back into their still warm chairs.

"Is this ever going to end, Mac? I mean, he could be in Timbuktu by now."

"Not unless he can swim then trek to the West African nation of Mali," he quipped trying to make light of the exhaustion he felt and the absurdity of the matter. "Then there's always that pesky Sahara desert in your way." He sent a good natured slap to Richie's shoulder.

A non-descript man poked his head in and identified himself as the artist. A loud voice halted him, and he apologetically said he would be back with a pad in a few minutes then disappeared. A moment later the young officer appeared with two cups of piping hot coffee in his hands. His name bar said 'K. Kilgore'

"Here you go. Got it fresh out of the machine." Handing them the Styrofoam cups, he quickly reached into his uniform pocket for the creamer and sugar he had hastily grabbed from the cafeteria condiment cart. Richie took a short sip, steam rising.

"Someone is awake at this time of night," Duncan said, looking at the crisply starched uniform, which lacked so much as a wrinkle.

The young officer straightened, squared his tie, and smiled. "Just came on duty about half-an-hour ago. When you're new, it pays to be wide awake and spit-polished at three-O clock in the morning". He took a few steps to the side of his Sergeants desk, glancing at the few scribbled notes on several random sheets which remained on top. His position afforded him a view of Richie's arm.

"Is it that early already?" Duncan asked, taking a sip of his hot coffee.

"Yup," he said not glancing to Duncan. His eyes were on Richie's bloody sleeve, the gaping entrance and exit holes visible. _Your sleeve is shot through._ He mentally made a note as his line of sight flashed between the half-open jacket and the sleeve. A red stained shirt, though fairly concealed, was still partially visible. "Were you wounded as well," he asked, concern coloring his voice, And he reached for Richie's sleeve. "Everyone's heard you were in a shooting. I can get you some help".

Duncan gave Richie a discrete but deliberate elbow in the side.

"Ah, me – no," he withdrew his arm as casually as he could make it seem; glanced to Duncan, and seeing his eye on the open jacket, quickly zipped it up. "No, Tessa was bleeding – I was trying to help her – she was on the ground – my jacket, well –," _A smooth line and a smile, don't fail me now,_ Richie thought as he tried to palm it all of as if all this young, eager-beaver officer had seen was a threadbare piece of cloth.

A fortunate turn of fate bailed him out. The sketch artist returned and hastily seating himself in the Sergeant's chair opened his pad. Nodding a polite dismissal to the young officer, he took out his pencil and eraser block.

"I hope you catch him soon," he said as he reached for Richie's empty cup.

"I'm sure the police will," Duncan said absently, then added, "Thanks for the coffee."

"I'll be around if you need anything else this morning."

He left for his desk in the corner. _There was a bullet hole straight through that sleeve – the front of his shirt was stained red._ He replayed the observations over and over in his mind. Tossing the cups in the waste basket, he reached into the inner pocket of his jacket, hanging behind his chair and retrieved a small palm note book. Noting the time, he opened it and began making notes. The small button on his sleeve pinched his wrist – _it was still a little sore there,_ he thought as he undid the button momentarily to carefully rub the spot – the **Watcher's tattoo** was still new.

Corporal Jacob Sandawski, 'Sandy' as he preferred to be called, quickly unscrewed the thermos, and poured himself a second cup.

"Do you want another cup, or are you good?" His peripheral vision caught sight of his partner's hand waving him off. He had taken advantage of a red light to pour himself a cup. _Oh well, it's just after three AM – no one is in a hurry behind us._ He recapped the thermos, in no particular hurry, then drove on. A soft spoken career man in his early forties, almost 6 foot tall with a slender build and light brown hair, that was pie-balding right on schedule, Sandy had been with the police force for most of his working life.

"This is the kind of night I like, Duke – absolutely nothing happening."

Sergeant Duke Maxim, gave a noncommittal "Uh hu." In stark contrast to Sandy's modest muscular features, 'Duke' as he preferred to be called around the police force, was built like a bull. For all his five-and-one-half feet in height, his heavy muscular neck, shoulders, and solid abs made him very formidable in hand-to-hand combatant. He never lost in a refresher match police force drill.

The squad car's computer blinked its annoying green-screen 'message alert' cursor, and Duke pulled the screen around to read what was coming.

"So much for your 'absolutely nothing' night. We've got an APB coming through."

"Oh that's just great. What's happened - and where?"

"Some teenage scum bag just shot a woman a couple of miles from our position then ran. His description is pretty so-so. More details about the jacket than the kid. Probably lose that thing in the first trash can he passes. It's just after three AM. Let's go see what we can shake out of the bushes in that area. By this time, any self respecting drunk is either passed out in the park or on their couch at home, so anyone – male of any description, that we find still kicking around the streets we're going to stop and question." Pausing, he passed a finger over several lines of text then added. "If we do stop someone, you let me take the 'walk'. Dispatcher thinks the shooter was either freaked out, or a psycho."

"I'm wearing my Kevlar vest," Sandy replied. "I could take the walk."

"Yeah, and I've got my Fruit-of-the-Loom underwear on too," he retorted, in a good-natured, but sarcastic tone. "That isn't going stop a bullet to the head. You let me take the walk if we run into anyone. Last thing I need is for you to get your brains shot out by a nut-case."

Duke and Sandy had been a virtually inseparable team on the police force for years. Like brothers, they watched each other's backs; when they took a call they were by each other's sides; and in those rare times, when there was real danger, they went in – guns drawn together. Though Duke always pushed Sandy behind himself when he could, Duke knew he could count on Sandy whenever he needed him.

Sandy fell silent, then shrugged an 'OK'. The willingness of his partner to persistently place himself in front of mortal danger never once escaped Sandy's grateful notice. He knew that this late 30-ish looking man, with distinct Roman features, was a very special partner indeed. Duke Maxim, an Americanized version of his real given name - **Ducanus Marcus Maximinus,** had been the Captain of the elite recruitment of Roman citizens - the Praetorian Guard. Millenniums old beyond his appearance, he was an immortal.

**Rome, 25 AD/C.E.**

Ducanus Marcus Maximinus stamped the dust from his Roman sandals as he entered the garrison building in Rome. The streets were dusty, dry, and a hot wind had been blowing all day long – too hot for a _Martius _(March) day. The bath was calling. Thermal springs were warm and soothing – his tired muscles could use it. He would be able to lose the street dust there for another evening. Leaning his spear against a column he removed his helmet then clapped his hands. "Something to drink," he shouted in the direction of a loose knot of men near the far column. A young man darted out of the group dressed modestly in the garb of a slave. Bowing briefly as he approached, he handed Ducanus a pewter cup filled with liquid. He drank then indicated he wanted more, the slave obliged him. While drinking was not allowed on duty, or in the garrison, a low-grade wine was permitted in the Praetorian Guard's quarters. He'd get something a lot better later. Sending the slave on his way, he unstrapped his helmet and removed it too.

"Captain," an unfamiliar voice called from the door. "My master, Senator Taren, is outside. He sends for you."

Re-strapping his helmet he followed the slave to the waiting man.

"Hail Caesar," the Senator said blandly as Ducanus approached.

Ducanus gave a casual salute – fist to his breastplate, but remained silent.

The Senator gave a casual glance to the few on the street beyond the garrison. "I'm hosting a – uh – celebration this evening and will require yours, as well as four or five of your most trustworthy soldier's, presence for – uh – guest control. This gathering is by invitation only.

"All of my men are trustworthy, Senator."

"Of course – I misspoke. I should have said, _discrete_. My wife is about her usual trip to the oracle in Delphi."

Ducanus stifled a knowing grin. He had served as 'guest control' for the Senator on such previous occasions when his wife was away – the best time for a self-affirmed, dignified Senator to host a private Bacchanal. The festival of Bacchus (the Roman god of wine and drunken orgies) was generally acknowledged around mid _Martius_, though its public celebration had been outlawed for almost 200 years in Rome. No matter, thought Ducanus, he always pays well for discretion.

The sun had set when Ducanus and his men took their post at the Senator's party. Some of the guests were already inside, and more were arriving. The Senator met one particular group at the door and personally ushered them in. Suddenly Ducanus sensed the presence of another immortal – casually, he looked about; hand perched on the pommel of his sword. The street before him was almost empty – only the occasional mortal man passed by. _Whoever it is must be inside,_ he thought. Ducanus and his men were expected to stand their posts unless summoned. He wanted to know who this was so he waited a long moment, before nodding to the nearest soldier, then he slipped quietly inside as the guard took up his Captain's former post. Ducanus took up a discrete position just inside the house. All around, on dais and lounge were examples of the Senator's 'social elite', engaged in debauchery. Their carnal pastimes sparked no interest in him, he had no taste for such crude self indulgences; _where is that immortal? _His immortal sense of presence told him another immortal was near – somewhere here, but he dare not investigate further unless he was summoned. A loud female voice rose from a group of guests in the next room. The voice, astonished at first, quickly took on an angry tone. A moment later a slave hurried from the room toward the door. Seeing Ducanus, he quickly motioned to him. This was the break he needed, and he took it.

Near the far corner of the next room, there stood Methos, fully clothed in an immaculately wrapped toga, blithely sipping his wine; before him was a woman – dressed in the gaudiest, revealing attire imaginable, having an utter melt-down.

"All I said, my dear, _plucked Flower of Rome (_prostitute_)_, is that stimulation, or should I say its art thereof, comes in many forms – all of which have long abandoned you," he finished with the driest of sarcasm, and popped a grape into his mouth.

Utterly furious at the insult to her, in her 'professional' capacity, she shouted at this party guest who obviously had the eyesight and desires of an aging eunuch. "Well! I have never been so – I'll have you know I'm one of the most beautiful, desirable, highest paid –"

"And no doubt you are," Methos continued, downing another hand full of grapes and cheese. "Probably sing stories as well while you work – though I fear most are off-key and of only one 'flavor' – too strong for a man of my delicate stomach."

In a fit of rage, the woman grabbed a half filled tray and flung it at him.

Methos easily dodged the culinary projectile, but not the irate woman's temper. She was about to lunge at him when Ducanus stepped in between.

"What's the problem here? Oh, hello Methos," he added in mock surprise.

"Well, well, if it isn't Captain Ducanus Maximinus, of the Praetorian guard. What a surprise to see you here," he replied with a deceptively innocent smile."

"Not really," replied Ducanus, in an equally smooth tone. "The good Senator insists his guests follow house 'etiquette' at all his 'social gatherings'. I, and my men, are here to 'remind' everyone that they are in a 'dignified' home."

Out of the corner of his eye, Methos saw the irate woman seize the host and appear to be giving him an ear-full of complaints. The host, summoned the head house slave, spoke briefly to him then quickly slid out of the room with the woman. The slave approached.

"I'm sorry, but the Senator has insisted that you leave at once."

"Why am I being evicted?"

"Indecency."

"In an orgy? Is that even possible?" Methos replied and looked about, a wide-eyed expression on his face. He didn't have to look far before it was obvious that this was a trumped-up charge. "I never once touched that woman, or any other for that matter."

"That's the problem."

"And you're still clothed – come on, you're leaving," Ducanus added with wide toothy grin. Grabbing Methos' arm he propelled him to toward the door.

Methos considered a hundred snappy replies to that comeback but decide in favor of silence for the moment.

Once outside, Ducanus's hand dropped firmly and purposefully to the pommel of his sword.

Methos caught the motion out of the corner of his eye, and froze. Staring questioningly into the eyes of this immortal Roman, his mind went into overdrive. _Would he play by the rules of immortal combat – discreet confrontation away from the eyes of his mortal men – one-on-one, swords in both combatant's hands? Or, would he try to take advantage of this situation with his men sworn to silence?_ He hoped he knew Ducanus to be a better immortal than this. He was being held in an awkward, poorly defendable position. _He could run me through without a moment's notice – I could die in his hands right here_, thought Methos. _And, it's a short drag to the next deserted street, ending with my head and my 'quickening'_ . His mind juggled options.

"I believe you're still on duty," he said in a quiet, probing voice.

Ducanus discretely looked around. His men were unmoved from their posts. Glancing back to Methos, he quietly released him. "The Senator has requested that you leave his gathering this evening," he said loudly enough for his immediate men to hear, then returned to stand his post.

Methos breathed a sigh of relieved and walked away. Though he was a skilled swordsman, he didn't want to have to face a fully armored praetorian guard.


	2. Chapter 2

**Present time:**

The precinct hallways were becoming busier as Duncan and Richie wend their way through the building to the parkade.

"They're never going to find this kid. He's probably crawled down some crack in the earth and is hold up by now."

"Richie, we just spent over two hours in there – you've given them quite a bit to go on. Give the police a chance, will yah?"

Richie gave a frustrated shake of his head; and stepping in front of Duncan, continued walking backwards, instep, without missing a beat. "Mac, the moment that kid think the coast is clear he'll blow town and no one will ever see him again. We should go after him now."

People were coming down the hallway with more frequency now as they neared the parkade, and Richie was getting a bit loud – that last line had turned a few heads.

"Keep your voice down." Duncan took a deep breath, stopped, looked about quickly, then moved purposefully to a row of doors along the corridor. The second knob he tried turned. Patting the sleeve of Richie's jacket, they went in and closed the door. "The last thing you want to do in a police station is give people the idea you're about to blow out of here on a vendetta. You're an immortal now – you just can't start killing mortals."

"That guy? Why the Hell not? He almost killed Tessa – and for what? A couple lousy dollars she had in her purse. Mac, if I hadn't been standing right where I was, she'd be on a slab right now. I –"

Duncan reached quickly, and purposefully to Richie and wrapped his arms around him, then looked briefly to the ceiling – to nothing in particular, as his eyes misted over with the unspoken emotions welling up in his heart. The manly embrace, ending in a backslap, lasted only an instant, but spoke volumes as to the depth of the '_Thank you_', in Duncan's heart, for the life of his precious love that had been saved. Duncan's eyes were wet when Richie's met them, and they both glanced briefly away. Duncan passed a hand over his tired face, pushing the loose hair back, clearing his eyes momentarily. "Richie, I can't even begin to find the words to express how I'm feeling right now. How do I say 'Thank You' to someone who just gave up their only chance at a relatively safe, mortal existence, to save a mortal woman so I can continue to love her for another couple of decades. That's far from a fair exchange for you."

Richie shuffled uncomfortably. "Mac, you don't have to say it - "

"Yes I do. I have to say it, or the feeling in here will rip its way out. I love Tessa – more than I have loved any woman in centuries since I've left my home. She has become a part of me – of my soul – more so than I had ever realized until she was kidnapped. The thought of her dying on that cold concrete last night – I don't think I could bear to go on. If it were at all possible right now, I would gladly give her whatever part of my life makes me immortal so she didn't have to suffer, and I would take her place in that hospital." He smoothed his hair again, exhaustion taking its toll.

"Look, I was there – it was happening – it was an instinctive reaction because Tessa – "

"Thank you," Duncan said quietly and turned, facing Richie, eye to eye. "Thank you for giving up so much for a woman who means more to me than life. You are one of us now, and that means you're part of the 'Game', and in immortal danger of losing your head. You just can't go running off, untrained. I just can't – ", his voice faded out, betraying his thoughts and feelings. _I just can't bear the thought of losing you either – my son._

Richie broke the silence. "Look," he began softly. "I haven't lived even a fraction of the time you've been alive. But there's one thing I know how to do and that's run when I have to. I'm sure you'll have me armed and dangerous soon enough. Until you do, I'm not going to stand there and let some immortal hack my head off. Don't worry."

"There is more you need to know about than just fighting. You need to know the 'Rules' – I just don't want you to go off right now."

Richie tucked a hand in his jacket pocket and turned briefly away from Duncan, toward a stack of empty boxes lining one wall. "I understand what you're saying, but he's out there – and if I find that bastard, I'm going to kill him."

"Don't," Duncan said, very quietly, with painful wisdom in his deep brown eyes. "Don't start – then you don't have to stop yourself – the way I did."

"Is that what this all about, Mac? About something you regretted doing in one of those wars you fought in centuries ago? He shot me too you know – he deserves it."

"You're an immortal."

"He didn't know that – and had I not been, I'd be lying on a slab myself right now. Look – I'm not planning on leaving a trail of bodies in my wake every time I leave the house. But that guy – no way."

"Richie, he thinks you're dead. As an immortal, one of our Rules is if you are killed in public you must leave the area for a generation. You can not appear to people who know you've died. To do so, you risk revealing you are an immortal. None of us can risk that."

"He didn't stick around to take my pulse. Beside, when I find him, he's not going to be around to talk about it."

Duncan hung his head. "I'm exhausted. I can't stop you. All I'm asking is for you to come home with me, get into something that isn't bloody and shot up, then get some sleep. We both need it. We need to be thinking with clear heads – that's all I'm asking." He looked at his watch. His eyes focused with difficulty. "It's almost five AM. We have to get cleaned up, and get a little rest. Tessa will be awake soon and I don't want her to see me this exhausted." Richie reluctantly nodded and leaving their 'confessional room', they made their way to Duncan's car.

**T**he squad car turned slowly onto the next block as Sandy updated their position with dispatch. They had been joined in the manhunt by two other vehicles – no one had seen anything in the past two hours. It was early dawn, and traffic was starting to pick up as people began heading out for the early shift. A jogger and a biker presented Duke and Sandy with momentary adrenalin surges until they realized they were looking at the wrong gender.

"I could have sworn that last one was a man – or at least a boy, Duke."

"You don't get out enough," Duke replied dryly as his eyes continued to scan the bush-lined properties and porches of the homes. "We're almost a mile from the original shooting site," he added. "If we don't see something soon let's double back."

"What makes you think he's near the scene yet?"

"The woman's companion said he was on foot - running down the street. They didn't say he hopped a bike or got into a car."

"He could have later – as soon as he was out of sight."

Duke shook his head. "It's possible that he was parked out of sight, but I don't think so. Something about all of this doesn't sound like he planned much of a getaway. He may not live far from where he shot the woman or there could be someone else involved."

"Interesting theory. No one mentioned a gang."

"No, not a gang – just not alone. Just a feeling." Duke scanned the computer monitor. "There is a new report in here," his finger moved down the field. "'Suspicious circumstances' – at a Tudor house, very near where the shooting occurred, was just reported. Door was found open – someone is investigating now. The owner wasn't apparently at home. I wonder if this isn't somehow connected to the shooting."

"Usually is when it's that close. Anything further on the report?"

"No. Not yet."

Duke's eye caught movement in the next block up ahead, and he motioned for Sandy to speed up a bit and kill the headlights. The movement was a bit erratic – whoever it was, was hugging the bushes as they walked along. Sandy took his foot off the accelerator, letting the car roll toward the pedestrian. Suddenly he stiffened.

"Nothing wrong with my eyes, Duke. Take a look at that jacket."

"I've got him." Duke switched on the side flood light and called. "Police – Sir, stop a moment! We'd like to speak –".

The boy bolted like a rabbit!

Duke threw the squad car's door open before Sandy could stop and gave chase. Sandy called it in to dispatch and followed the on-foot pair, as far as he could, down the block, though an empty lot and into a residential construction zone. With Duke about half-a-block behind, the boy dashed into a partially constructed home, then wend his way in and around boxes of material and timber from room to room.

Switching the car's flood lights on, Sandy was out of the car and after Duke, gun drawn.

Slowly Duke drew his service revolver. "I'm Officer Maxim. We just want to talk to you about where you've been tonight, that's all." He heard and acknowledged familiar footsteps approaching as Sandy entered the building. Silently he motioned him into the next room. "Listen to me Son, there won't be any trouble if you come out with your hands where I can see them. We just want to ask you a couple of questions."

The floor creaked near the entrance of the doorway to the next room, and Duke readied himself to tackle. His muscles tensed and he leaned into the anticipated motion. At the last moment, he drew himself up and back as Sandy appeared in the open archway. He shook his head.

"Come on now," he said into the seemingly empty building. "You are making this all unnecessarily hard on yourself." He motioned for Sandy to hold perfectly still as he slowly scanned the room with his ears for the sound of rapid breathing.

Sandy motioned toward the kitchen and started toward the opening, but Duke cut him off with a quick wave of his hand and instead pointed toward what was to become the dining room. As he approached the kitchen, Duke thought he heard the sound of someone move around the corner - by the wall. He lunged around the corner to find – **A cat!**

Startled, Duke lurched back as the frightened animal leapt from the counter, sending bits of construction debris flying. The sound of a second squad car skidding loudly to a stop on the building's threshold caused Duke to glance back toward the door. A motion out of the corner of his eye returned his attention to the room he was in – but not soon enough. Before he could refocus his attention fully, he felt two slugs hit his chest – heard two shots reverberate in the empty room – saw a blur as his attacker who was standing rock-still when he fired, ran from the building! Duke gasp, then forced himself to take a deep breath as he felt his heart stop and life drain rapidly from him. An instant later Sandy bolted past him and fired through the open section of the building. Realizing he hadn't connected, he turned in time to see his partner drop to his knees. He was at Duke's side in an instant.

Through the opening in the building, both heard the outside officer's radio call – "Shots being fired, requesting backup."

Holding himself together as best he could, Duke looked up to his partner and with his last breath said, "Get me out of here – now," then collapsed into Sandy's strong grasp and died.

Sandy dragged his lifeless partner through the building just as a young officer was entering from the other side. "He ran out that way," Sandy shouted, motioning energetically into a direction that was opposite their position. The young officer darted off, and Sandy dragged Duke out to the living room portion of the building behind some boxes. "Come on Duke," Sandy said quietly, urgently, placing an expert hand on his partner's carotid artery and feeling for a pulse – any sign of life. "Come back to me before anything else happens – come on boy."

Duke lay lifeless on the floor. His shirt bathed red in the blood brought forth from those two shots that had struck him dead-center in the chest, penetrating his heart. With solemn reverence, Sandy considered what he was witnessing for a moment. _That could just as well have been me – only no one would be expecting me to come back. I would have just cashed in my 'chips'._ He listened carefully, not wanting to hear footsteps._ Come on Duke, you've been dead long enough. The clock's running on this one. Say goodbye to Saint Peter up there and get your immortal spirit back into your immortal body! There's an eager-beaver buck, of an officer out there somewhere, and I don't know when he's coming through this building again._ Helpless, Sandy could do nothing to bring Duke back to life. He could only kneel by his dead friend – a silent vigil as the immortal healed – hopefully able to keep him away from mortal eyes who knew nothing of immortals. To Sandy the seconds crawled like minutes.

Duke gasp suddenly, then coughed. An instant later he clutched his chest, rolled to his side and groaned.

"Come on Duke," he urged, and he grabbed an arm. "You have to get to your feet. I have to get you in the squad car. There's another officer here – somewhere."

Reluctantly, Duke rose with Sandy's strong-arm help. Looping an arm across Sandy's back they started toward the car, Duke half walking-half staggering. Before they reached the car, the young officer rounded the corner of the building at a dead run. Seeing the pair he skidded to a halt. The front of Duke's blood soaked shirt was partially visible.

"Oh my God – you've been hit!" the young man exclaimed.

"Just a flesh wound – I'll call it in and - ."

Before Sandy could finish his statement, the young officer had engaged his uniform's two-way.

"Officer has been hit, requesting an ambulance immediately!"

"I'll take him in – cancel the call – its minor."

Duke suddenly straightened, un-looped his arm and pulled his shirt straight. "Bullet caught the edge of my shield (badge) and winged me," he said none too convincingly, then walked purposefully in a not so straight line to the squad car, just as the sound of the ambulance siren was heard. "Come on Sandy. Take me in so I can get a Band-Aid for this flesh wound."

"It's Ok boys," Sandy waved to the ambulance paramedics as the van pulled to a halt. "Just a flesh wound – I'm taking him in now."

Duke could not completely conceal his shirt from the paramedics as he got into the car. Their reaction was instantaneous.

Advancing rapidly toward Duke's side of the car, the woman called, "You don't have to. We're here for that. We'll get him on the stretcher."

Reaching in through the open window, Sandy hit the siren. The blaring sound caused the paramedics to move away, holding their ears against the shrieking sound.

"Sorry –"Sandy yelled back apologetically over the din. "We just got another call – no time to wait." Jumping into the car he put it in motion. Gravel was flung in every direction as Sandy floored it leaving the construction site. Once he turned the corner he slowed to a more sensible speed.

"That was no scared kid, Sandy. He planned to kill me. Just the way he took me tells me he was practiced. I wonder he is all about? I was right about what I said earlier - the 'feeling'. There is something else here going down." Reaching to the side Duke grabbed the thermos. "You want a cup," he asked as he finished pouring himself a lukewarm cup of coffee.

"Not now. I'll get a fresh one at the hospital."

"You're kidding me – you're not actually taking me in?"

"Afraid so, Duke. Two people saw your blood stained shirt, and one heard the shots."

Duke leaned back against the headrest and rolled his eyes. "No one saw me dead did they?"

"No, I sent that young buck off in another direction while you were '_gone'_."

Duke though for a moment. "That young man could have gotten killed going after him alone."

Sandy shook his head, 'No'. "That guy was long gone before the other officer arrived."

"I just got a brief look at this face. Did you get a look at his face before he ran?"

"Only for a second as well."

"Could you recognize him again if you saw him?"

Sandy nodded slowly. "I believe so."

Duke swore quietly. Had he not been distracted by the sound of that squad car pulling to a stop, he would have likely heard the shooter leap from the side pantry, and dodged his aim.

"Sorry, it wasn't the brightest in there, and the look went pretty fast."

Duke pulled the front of his shirt up to get a better look at it, then shook his head. "He knew what he was going to do before he did it. Those two shots are almost on top of one another. He had a solid lock on me. Nothing 'frightened' about this kid. He's done this before – somewhere. If you would have gone in ahead of me, you wouldn't have been with me anymore, Sandy. Who's on duty where you're taking me that knows about immortals?"

"Dr. Grace Chandel."

Duke heaved a sigh of relief. The physician immortal had been working at the hospital for less than a year, but her presence had come in handy on more than one occasion.

Sandy picked up the com and put a call through, requesting to speak with Dr. Chandel, then explained the situation."

"So how long am I in for this time?"

"Gauging by the expression on the faces of that young officer and the paramedic I would say a minimum of three to four days."

Duke groaned. "I can't handle the get-well cards and the flowers. Bandages make me itch."

Sandy smiled. "If your act is good enough, maybe we can sweet talk Grace into signing your medical leave for a week's rest at home. You can go fishing."

"At home – and let you go out on a manhunt by yourself – no way. You know there isn't a scratch on me by now."

"I know, but the rest of the world doesn't. So when are you ready to break the news to the department – that they have been decorating an immortal for mortal-bravery 'above-and-beyond' all these years? Probably take away your medals for heroism if they knew your, hum – 'immortal status'," Sandy finished with a large knowing grin. "Don't worry. I think Grace will agree I twisted my back during the pursuit. I need a couple days at home to_ rest_ – and go fishing of course." His eyes twinkled with a smile.

Duke grimaced. "Tell her to use cloth tape – and don't press it down so hard. That way it won't rip all my chest hairs off when it's pulled. By Zeus, I hate pulling tape there."


	3. Chapter 3

Needless to say, we do not own highlander tv series characters!

Please, send us your feedback. We are really interested in reading some opinions about the story. Thanks!

Duncan awoke with a start and looked around. It took him a moment to orient himself. His mind rewound the last things he remembered. _You returned home about 5 AM this morning and began multitasking – grabbed something from the refrig and wolfed it down – tossed your clothes on the floor and jumped into the shower – tripped over them leaving the shower – new clothes on – car keysin hand – heading for the car – passed the couch – just going to sit down for a moment –._ And that was the end of his mental check list. It was 6:30 AM now. His exhausted mind had switched off enforcing a desperately need hour of sleep. The sun was rising and he so wanted to be by Tessa's side when she awoke but he had been so exhausted he knew he couldn't have even seen the road straight to drive. Crashing his car on the way to the hospital, then '_coming back_' in front of however many witnesses was not on his list of things to do today. '_Flowers_' came to mind and he made a mental note to stop on the way to her room and get a bouquet – white roses – a symbol of his pure love and sincerity to a woman he felt so deeply for. The brief, but deep sleep had rejuvenated him. "Richie," he called as he open the door. "I'm on my way to the hospital." There was no answer. He went back to the kitchen and scratched a brief note then tossed it in the middle of the table. 'ME - Hospital – 6:30 AM'. There was no real need to wake Richie. He knew he had been on an emotional 'high', even more so than himself. He had just become immortal less than 24 hours ago. Let him sleep today – it would clear his mind – better this way. He headed for the door once again when the presence of another immortal in the immediate area lit up his senses. He halted before the door.

"Knock, knock," came the lyrical voice of Amanda as she peered, around the door at Duncan with a beaming big smile, and school-girl charm in her eyes.

Duncan exhaled, relaxing. "Hello Amanda, and goodbye Amanda. I'm in a rather big hurry and I don't have time for whatever is on your mind."

Amanda spooled around Duncan's body like a feline in need of some quality petting. "I thought we could all sit down for a talk. The last time you and I ran into each other you were with – uh –Tessa, and – well – it didn't quite come off the way I had hoped. I thought I might smooth things over between us." Her hands slowly found their way up the front of Duncan's neatly pressed shirt to his neck, encircling it. "Where is she?"

Reaching around his neck, Duncan gently peeled Amanda's arms off of his warm flesh, then held her hands in his. "She's in the hospital – where I'm going to now. She was shot last night and nearly killed – if it weren't for Richie –"his voice faded out. He closed his eyes, shaking his head.

"That's awful," Amanda replied, recoiling. "Do you know who – and why?"

"By a psycho kid. That pretty much sums up what Richie gave for the events to the police. We were at the station most of the night. For a couple of dollars he almost killed her."

"What happened to Richie?" In the next moment Amanda felt the presence of another immortal. "Who else is here, Duncan?"

Richie entered the living room yawning, his hair tousled. "Mac, I thought I heard your voice, then suddenly I felt this 'presence' in my head. I was up like a shot then I heard Amanda's voice."

"Well look at you," she said leaving Duncan and walking to Richie. Her eyes passed up and down his form as if she were trying to somehow 'see' a physical transformation connected with his immortal one. "All brand new. Has Duncan helped you pick out a sword yet?"

"No, it just happened yesterday evening. Tessa was shot. I was killed saving her – he hit me first and I deflected the bullet."

"Ouch," Amanda grimaced. "So now what?"

"He stays right here until Tessa and I get back and I can start his training."

"Mac," Richie began.

"I've got to go. I want to be there when she wakes up. Why don't you help me out here, Amanda? You can start with the 'Immortal Rules'."

"Like that's going to take more than 3 minutes to recite."

"Amanda, would you humor me please. Richie needs to get started on the ground work. The Immortal Rules and 'The Game', are the groundwork every immortal must learn."

"Look Duncan, I can easily do that," she replied, hands gesturing to no place in particular. "I can spend some quality time with Richie today if that's what you really want me to do, but that's not why I came."

"I have a hunch why you came."

"I came because I really wanted to smooth things between Tessa and – well – you know – all of us."

"Tessa is fine with me and Richie," he replied sidestepping the obvious indication.

"That's not what I meant, and you know it, Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod," she said in a stern tone with a direct stare – all hint of cool coy disappearing from her voice.

Duncan turned to face her, eye-to-eye. Before she could speak, he spoke. "I've asked Tessa to marry me and she has said yes."

Amanda took a sharp, deep breath, and stepped back, away from the man with whom she had shared her body with, centuries ago. "I'm happy for you," she said in a dead monotone voice. "Look – you have made Tessa a part of our immortal world, and like it or not, she is going to have to interact with other immortals – me for one." Turning she went back to Richie and grasping his shoulder led him wordlessly into the kitchen.

Duncan shook his head then left.

Passing a mirror in the hospital's flower shop, he stopped to check his appearance once again. Something about his reflection made him linger. He gazed unmoving at the 'man' who was staring back at him. _Are you as troubled as I am on the other side of that looking glass? Is your world fill with the joys, the pain, and the uncertainty of more than 400 years of living the way mine has been on this side? Would you object if I, like Alice in Wonderland, stepped through the looking glass and tasted your existence for just a brief moment? Maybe I could understand mine just a little better._

So deeply lost in thought was he, he did not notice the infatuated look in the nurse's eyes behind him, which was reflected in the mirror's corner, by that looking glass man. As if he would have ever cared how much she, or any other nurse, may have wanted to flirt with him. The shower had erased some of the tension in his muscles and the nap made him look more relaxed. But now all the emotional turmoil he had trapped in himself was draining him of the little energy he had left. With a finger, he brushed the hair from under the lapel and checked the rest of his outfit. If she was awake, he had to look his best.

Impatience was beginning to grow within him, tracing a clear path from his toes to his eyebrows – back and forth. The elevator door crept shut. _Why is this elevator so slow_? Each step to her room made the adrenaline in his body play with his senses. _What if I open the door to find an empty bed?_ _What if, for all my frantic rushing, she has died and I wasn't here with her?_

Suddenly he felt a slight burning feeling in his hand. For a microsecond, he instinctively moved his wrist as if he were holding his katana. _That couldn't be – could it? Of course not!_ The white roses he had bought for her were not appreciating his rough grasp and the thorns had left clear puncture marks, which were rapidly healing. _Calm down! _He ordered himself to let the tension flow from himself and focus on room numbers. 233 … 234 … 235. _What if I open the door and she is not there? _His mind prodded again. _How many more times can I go through this?_

His immortal senses lit up as he felt the immediate presence of another immortal. Slowly he looked around. People, mortal people, were coming and going – staff, visitors, patients. Suddenly the elevator door opened in the next hall block ahead. An orderly, a police officer, and a man on the gurney – the gurney was being wheeled toward him. Duncan did a double-take – the immortal was on the gurney. _What's he doing with life-support equipment by his side?_ The orderly turned into a room a few numbers up from Tessa's door. The police officer followed. Duncan's instinctive curiosity about what he had just seen propelled him several steps past Tessa's room. He stopped. He had no reason to enter another room. Hesitant, he turned back to Tessa's door and opened it.

The room was dimly lit with only the sunshine reflecting off the adjacent building. Its stark coldness of décor upset him. This was no place for Tessa and the roses he had brought could make no difference. She looked asleep but restless. He had seen that expression many times before, when he arrived home late after a challenge and she had not managed to stay awake. He would go to her, hold her in his arms, reassure her that everything was fine, and they would make love to heal each other's pain. _Not this time. Your 'pain' for her will have to heal itself. She can't respond to you now_. Softly, he walked closer and noticed how pale she looked – _fragile – almost – sick. _He felt the urge to touch her soft skin but did not want to wake her. _Besides, what if she feels cold_? He knew he was going to the darker places in his mind and tried to concentrate on finding something for the roses. He saw a glass on the table and went to the bathroom for some water. _Another damn mirror. What is it with people and their own reflections_? He placed the roses on the table and brought a chair as close to her as he could, yet he still did not dare touch her. He could not help but see the resemblance between Tessa and the roses. They were on this earth only to bring beauty and happiness without asking for much in return – a little sunshine, a gentle rain here and there. They could stand strong winds, lose a few petals, survive the winter chill, but they would inevitably bloom with a little warmth. Yes, Tessa reminded him of the wild roses in the Highlands of Scotland. It brought images of his clan, his family, his home back to him. _But what happens if people cut them? Was it a sin? _He now realized those roses had been a mistake. She had told him several times not to bring cut flowers to the house because they made her sad. "_They are dead already,_" she used to say. "_The only thing I can do is watch their agony._" _"The only things that are living have roots so they can be nurtured and grow. Separate them from their life blood and they can only die". _That memory, and the thought of her mortal life, chilled him to the bone, making his blood run cold.

"Duncan?" an almost inaudible whisper.

_They are dead already_. _It is just the agony of contemplating their decay._

"Duncan?" her voiced led him back to reality. His eyes lit up.

"Hey sweetheart, here I am. Everything is fine, you are going to be ok," he said, not aware of the tear that was rolling slowly down his cheek.

She managed to lift her hand and lovingly caress him, wiping his tear with her gentle touches. "What's wrong, then?"

He smiled sheepishly. "Nothing, it's just that when you called my name I suddenly remembered a poem I read once." _When did I stop being a fierce warrior to become a silly romantic movie star_? _Is this some kind of middle-age crisis_?

"Tell me," she softly said.

"Oh well, I'm not sure I remember all the lines," he feigned ignorance.

"Tell me," she pleaded with her usual, "_I know I am going to get what I want,_" look in her eyes.

He finally found the courage to run his fingers through the strands of hair which had fallen across her lovely cheeks. His eyes followed his touch – fingers gently caressing her cheeks – her neck – her lips. He exhaled, and complied.

"The first time I loved forever  
Was when you whispered my name  
And I knew at once you loved me  
For the me of who I am

The first time I loved forever  
I cast all else aside  
And I bid my heart to follow  
Be there no more need to hide"

"That's absolutely beautiful," Tessa whispered, then slowly – ever so carefully, pulled him into her loving embrace.

Sandy walked past the flower shop on his way to the main lobby. Around the corner, and down the far end of the wall, away from the many people who were coming and going, he picked up a courtesy phone.

"Officer Sandawski – I'm calling for Joe Dawson." Sandy glanced around then propped himself against the wall where he had a clear view of who might be near. "Joe? – its Sandy, listen – I think we might have a problem. The kid that shot Miss. Noel, also took Duke out tonight like a pro. I think it was Mark Roszca – yah - James Horton's protégé. I don't think Pallin Wolf was working alone.


	4. Chapter 4

**We do not own characters from the Highlander TV Show.**

**Please, send us your feedback!**

Richie followed Amanda as she helped herself to a look around the house.

"I'd really like to get my hands on this guy for what he did."

"You don't like being immortal already?" Slowly she eyed the kitchen then moved to the next room.

"No, that's not what I mean – I really haven't been immortal long enough to know anything about it."

_The living room is – well – 'quaint'_ she thought. "It's living, Richie. Just living. Beside you don't even know where this kid went, do you?" _Let's see what the bedroom has to offer._

Richie shook his head. "I haven't a clue. He just split." He shook his head. "So you've been immortal a very long time – over 1100 years?"

"And counting." She stopped by the door and grasped the handle.

"I think this is something Mac and Tessa would like to keep privet," he said, with a grin and leaned against the door, closing it. Amanda slipped an arm around his neck and drew him towards herself – away from the door.

"You know, revenge isn't all it's made out to be." Her other hand slipped past his side – her finger slowly pried the bedroom door open, just a crack so she could see inside. "You know if I would have gone after every mortal that did me wrong, I don't think I would be standing here talking to you now."

"Why not?"

"I would have been arrested so many times that I would likely still be killing myself in order to escape from all the jails I would have ended up in. Look, every mortal simply isn't worth your time. _Humm – quite a lovely little 'nest' they have in there_, she mused silently as she peered past Richie through the open crack into the bedroom. Richie sensed what was happening.

"Right – you're good." With a chuckle, he leaned hard against the door.

Amanda got her fingers out of the way just in time. Her tongue brushed the tip of her lip and she lowered her head and smiled, staring into his eyes, she said nothing. Releasing Richie, she moved on.

"Actually I was thinking of what he did to Tessa – not really me when I said I wanted his ass. I mean look at the situation. He saw she didn't' have a purse or anything big on her. So where was she going to pull the cash from? Then what did he do? He shot, just at the instant my arm happened to be reaching to shove her out of the way. His next shot was for me – it hit me square in the chest. If this had happen to Tessa, she would have been dead right then and there." He looked briefly to the floor – to nowhere in particular. "Amanda I can't even begin to imagine how bad Mac would have reacted to losing her – it would have changed his whole life."

Throughout Richie's monologue, Amanda continued her way toward Tessa's workshop. She stopped to look at some of Tessa's unfinished works. "My, my. I see art comes in many forms."

"Tessa is quite good. She has gotten a couple of good reviews from her shows. Well – not that I'm an art critic, mind you, but this stuff is interesting."

"Ok," Amanda said. If you say so. _I prefer the sparkly round, faceted kind usually found in expensive necklaces or tiaras_, her mind finished, as she passed a finger down and around the curved surface of a piece still blackened by the torch, and awaiting the polishing wheel. "Look Richie, being immortal doesn't make you feel any different. I wouldn't have expected you to come back after your first death saying, "Thanks for shooting me – I'm immortal now, everything is just dandy." You just live longer – hopefully. And speaking of which – ah-ha, this will do nicely," Amanda said suddenly carefully thumbing through a bunch of Tessa's welding rods. Most were about a meter in length and all were at least ½ inch thick. She picked two out. "Here," and handed one to him. "You know the 'Immortal Rules', let's do something practical about keeping you alive – come on." Rod in hand, Richie and Amanda went out into the living room and move the furniture to the walls. Amanda motioned, indicating what they were about to do and Richie followed her lead. "A rod isn't a sword. It doesn't have a handle and it doesn't swing like one, but for an hour or so, we can pretend. Beside we can't do much damage with a blunt rod in a house, can we? Now, follow my lead –."

Duncan spooned up another helping of mash potatoes and delivered it into Tessa's waiting mouth. Then setting the spoon aside he reached and folded a hospital napkin and gently dabbed the corners of her mouth. She smiled back. This was fun. It was well past noon, but Tessa was not in a hurry to finish her meal. Adjusting her position on her large pillow, she pushed aside the hair that had tumbled across her cheek.

"Your little bird is still hungry," she said with a coy smile as she accepted another serving of this, now cold, vegetable. Anything served up to her at the end of Duncan's spoon went down much better anyway. Her eyes were beginning to sparkle once again. She was really beginning to enjoy being fed by her rugged Highlander, now turned soft hearted poet.

Duncan was happy to oblige her. This feeding exercise was becoming just as much fun for him as it obviously was for her. _Anything to see her smile_, his heart whispered. S_he's looking positively glowing with each spoon full. If that's what it takes, I'll feed her the whole kitchen. I have got to get her out of here – I want her home – safe at home with me_. His conscious mind reminded himself sternly, _She's mortal – she will need care to heal – this takes time. Mortals aren't all healed up 10 minutes after the act_. He exhaled, trying not to show his tiredness and outright depression at this situation he knew she would have to endure for several more days.

A knock at the door followed by a male voice. "Knock, knock – I'm Dr. Andrews, one of the residents here. Can I check your surgical site?" Placing his clipboard down on a side table, he pulled on a pair of gloves.

Duncan scooted off of the bed so Tessa could roll over. The bandages covered an area the size of a softball on the lower-outer right edge of her ribcage.

"Ok, looks good – everything is dry. We'll leave this in place until tomorrow." He wrote a few notes.

"Is it too soon to ask when I can take her home?"

"And you are?"

"Duncan MacLeod. We're getting married soon. I just want to get her home as soon as possible – as soon as it's safe."

"Congratulations," the physician said, smiling to Tessa then turning to Duncan. "I was going to ask if she had a support system at home, but I see that isn't an issue. No, it is not too early to ask about going home. Let's talk about going home sometime after I see you tomorrow."

"That soon?" Tessa asked, her voice a mixture of hope and apprehension.

Duncan brightened considerably.

"You're not going home tomorrow, but tomorrow will tell me how soon you are going home," he finished. "We don't keep people any longer that we have to. Open heart surgery is usually only 4-5 days – a transplant is usually 6-10 depending on many factors. You're situation is a lot less serious."

"Really?" Duncan said, taken a bit aback by the statement. "She was shot – there was a lot of blood."

"That was an immediate problem which was resolved once we got the bleeding stopped, the bullet out, and corrected for volume loss. Oh, that reminds me." He reached into his lab coat and took out a small plastic bag. "I have a souvenir for the police. I thought you might like to see what sent you here." He handed the bag to Tessa. It was the bullet. Tessa turned the bag over in her hand and grimaced, but said nothing. Dr. Andrews pushed out a place on the edge of the bed and sat down beside her. "There's something interesting about all of this," he began. "I served as a medic toward the beginning of the Gulf War. I have seen a lot of bullet wounds. Yours was, to my eye, definitely different."

"How so," asked Duncan, taking the small plastic bag and turning it over in his hand.

"You were shot at close range with a small caliber weapon. At that distance this should have passed straight through you, at the angle you were hit. But, the inside of your rib stopped it cold. Now either you've got concrete for bones or something slowed this down before it reached you."

Tessa tried her best to look blank. _Richie was that something. I wouldn't even be talking to you now except for Richie. He became immortal because of me. Had things gone just a little differently – even a fraction of a second, I would have become immortal – in a spiritual sense. Oh God, I hate deceiving you, but you can't ever know what really happened_.

Duncan handed the bag back to the physician.

Another knock sounded, this time followed by a tall, slender woman in a business suit – a badge clipped to her belt. "I am Inspector Barns," she said in a pleasant, but official tone. Are you the doctor?"

"Andrews," he supplied as he got up from the bed.

"Is there any reason Miss Noel can't answer a few question?"

He shook his head 'No', then added. "Surgery was a little over 8 hours ago. I do recommend that you only stay until she says she is tired." He left the room.

The police inspector approached. "I have a couple of questions, Miss Noel. Would you mind?" Tessa shook her head and the woman brought a chair up to the bed. Duncan exhaled, a bit annoyed and thought, _you know that Richie and I just spent around 4 - 5 hours at the station. What more is there to be said? Can't you leave this poor woman alone?_

"I know it all probably happened pretty fast for you, but I need to know if you can add anything to the information we already have."

"I'll try."

The woman handed her the sketch the artist drew from Richie's description. "Is this the man?"

"Yes."

"Is there anything else you can add to what you see there?"

Tessa looked closely at the sketch. To her, his sketch appeared more two-dimensional than what one would expect to see in a photograph, but the details captured were frighteningly accurate.

"No, this is the kid. He came out of nowhere. All I remember was he was yelling at me – at Richie, to give him what ever we had. Then he shot me." She closed her eyes and put a hand to her forehead. Duncan swooped in protectively on the other side of the bed.

"Are you getting tired, sweetheart? Do you want to stop?"

"Mr. MacLeod, if we could continue, uninterrupted – "

"Inspector, this woman – soon to be my wife – has been put through a traumatic event. She just got out of surgery early this morning. Besides, Richie has been at the police station for over 4 hours giving a detailed description."

"I know this, and I understand that you want to protect her now, but if there are any more details she could possibly give, we need them." Then looking to Tessa asked, "Can we continue?"

Tessa nodded. "I am afraid I don't have any more details about him. It really did happen fast."

"You just happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. What happened to Richie in all of this? Did he just shoot you then run? Did your – uh – companion try to attack him? Follow him? Anything? It seems a bit odd that with two people standing there he would only shoot one – the woman. It would make more sense if he would have shot your companion. He would have been more of a threat to him. But he did nothing to him? Did the attacker know you? An old acquaintance with a grudge?"

_I can't tell you what I know, Inspector_, she thought. _I can't tell you that he died to save me – then he came back to life, immortal. I know none of this is adding up but that is the way I am going to have to leave it. You just can't ever know what really happened_. Tessa shook her head. "I never saw him before last night. After he shot me I must have blacked-out. I really can't tell you anymore."

The Inspector heaved a sigh. "I understand. I do wish you had more information for me." She folded her note pad. "From everyone's description so far, his profile would appear to be that of a teenage-junky looking for drug money – on the surface that is."

"What are you saying, Inspector," Duncan asked.

"I'm saying appearances' can sometime be deceiving. Coincidentally around the same time as your shooting, a half-dozen or so houses up from where your companion said you were parked, there was a break-in at a Tudor home. Something went down there but we haven't pieced it together yet."

Duncan felt a cold shiver run down his spine. He had killed the man who kidnapped Tessa less than 30 minutes before the shooting. He had done it none too neatly either – _a katana can leave a bloody mess! I never even thought to close the door – I just ran to Tessa. What did the police find_? He braced himself for the revelation.

"What did you find?" Duncan asked, holding his breath.

"An early morning jogger called in 'suspicious circumstances' - the house door was wide open. Apparently the intruder gained access without forced entry."

_That's right – Tessa's kidnapper left it open for me – he wanted me to come after him. I never did learn his name or what this was really all about._

"If I may," Duncan began again, very carefully. "Who owns the house?"

She paused and weighed whether or not she wanted to give him that information. Finally she shrugged – he could easily find that much out from the courthouse registry, or the Internet – everything seemed to be ending up on the Internet sooner or later. "The house is registered to a Walter and Ema Wolf."

"Were the owners at home during the break-in?"

"The officer found no one at home when he got to the door. The family is probably traveling. He locked and closed the door."

_You'll find one of them dead in that room upstairs - as soon as someone bothers to look,_ Duncan thought. _I'm going to do a little background checking on this Walter and Ema Wolf when I leave the hospital._

She took a deep breath then nibbled her lip for a moment, thoughtfully. "Miss Noel, your attacker also shot a police officer a few hours later."

"Oh how terrible. Is he still alive?"

"Yes, he was lucky as well. His partner brought him in here. Seems to be everyone's night for luck, accept me."

"When I got here this morning, I saw a police officer get off the elevator and walk beside a gurney to a room – he went in just down the hall a couple of rooms away."

"Was he tall, and slender?"

"Yes."

"That was probably Officer Sandawski. His partner was shot early this morning."

_The immortal. I have to find out what is going on – what can I use as an excuse? _He looked to Tessa. "Sweetheart would you object if I left you for a few moments to see how that officer is doing?" He fidgeted a bit, his left hand rubbed the side of his face – his temple – his hair. "After all that has happened, I just feel I should give him – his partner at least – a few words of encouragement about you." He knew that was a very lame excuse, but he hoped that he came off as a bit of a nervous wreck – convincing enough not to raise any suspicion.

"It's ok, Duncan," Tessa began gently. "You go see how that poor man is doing. I will be fine. There is nothing more I can add to what Richie has probably given the police already. As I said, I must have blacked-out."

The inspector got up and moved her chair away. "If you think of anything else, give me a call." She handed Tessa her card. Tessa nodded her 'Ok' and the woman left.

Duncan waited by the door until he saw her enter the first set of elevators before he left Tessa. Slowly, Duncan walked down the corridor until he felt an immortal presence – that indescribable singular sensation in his head of another immortal nearby. _I'm sensing two immortals?_ He stopped by the door._ What will my reception be_? He knew the other immortals sensed his presence as well; however, there should be no cause for alarm. Not only was a hospital a public place, this was also a _**religious **_based hospital and the grounds had been _**consecrated**_. No immortal would ever fight on _**Holy Ground**_, or in a public place. Never-the-less he was still uneasy about meeting a new immortal. He knocked gently then entered slowly. I'm Duncan Mac –"he began, then halted.

Dr. Grace Chandel was bending over the bed. She stopped what she was doing and looked up at him with a bright smile. "Hello Duncan. What brings you here?"

He carefully closed the door as Sandy got up from the chair beside the bed. "I'm Officer Sandawski. And you are?"

"MacLeod – Duncan MacLeod," he finished. _There are four people in this room – three of us are immortals. What does the fourth one know of us – if anything? What can I say in here?_ He gestured down the hallway. "Tessa Noel, my fiancée, was shot on the street last night by some junky looking for drug money. I just learned that a police officer, who came in here earlier today, was shot by the same kid."

Grace gasped. "Someone shot Tessa. Oh Duncan, I am so sorry to hear this. I'll go see her when I'm finished here and –"

Duke pushed back the covers and sat up interrupting Grace. "You're more than finished here, Grace. I'm Ducanus Maximinus – Duke Maxim nowadays – and this is my partner, Sandy. He knows what I am – about immortals. Is Miss Noel going to survive?"

Duncan nodded. "She is awake and just had something to eat. She is looking better. Can you tell me anything about the shooter?"

"He was no strung out junkie looking for drug money. That is certain."

"What do you mean?"

"He took me out tonight – two slugs right through the chest," he motioned to the area. "One almost right on top of the other – rock-steady and a practiced hand. He fired then moved out of Sandy's way, very fast. He wasn't strung out on anything. He knew exactly what to do and how to do it. He was a pro.

"I don't get any of this," Duncan said looking from Sandy to Duke.

"Neither do I," Sandy spoke up. "He dropped Duke like a shot at close range. Miss Noel was also shot at close range, I understand. She is one incredibly lucky woman to have survived."

Duncan bowed his head momentarily, then taking a deep breath, looked Sandy in the eye. "There is a bit more to it than that. But this has to be off the record, Officer."

Sandy glanced back to Duke then to Duncan. "Alright,' he said slowly, nodding.

"Richie was killed saving Tessa. The bullet that hit her had already passed through him. This was his first death. He came back immortal."

"He gave up his mortal life saving Tessa," she said, sadness in her eyes, but with a strong feeling of pride in her heart for Richie's actions. "Did he know he was going to be immortal? This happened a lot sooner than I would have wanted it to for him."

"I agree, too soon," Duncan said, a sad kind of wisdom reflected in his eyes. "Yes, I mentioned it briefly to him shortly after we met – the reason I knew he was in the shop – the first quickening he saw, but I never brought it up after that. I felt Richie was too impulsive to handle the whole immortal discussion. At the time we talked, I felt if he would have seriously acknowledged it, he would have taken reckless chances without any thought for self-preservation. I wanted him to mature a bit before he became immortal. A 'bit' is all he got."

Sandy listened, then looked to Duke, but did not comment for a long moment. "Did Miss Noel know the attacker?"

Duncan shook his head. "No. This whole thing is making less and less sense to me as we're talking. What you're suggesting is there is a kid with paramilitary training working as an assassin in our city. What does this have to do with Tessa or Richie?" Duncan finished looking first to Sandy then Duke. "If you know something about this person, please tell me. I have to protect Tessa."

"Sandy and I both got a brief look at him as well. We'll check for 'priors' (previous criminal records), in the meantime, Mr. MacLeod, if none of you have ever seen this person before, I don't see any reason why you should feel your fiancée is in any particular danger now from him. This may simply have been a case of, "being in the wrong place at the wrong time" for her. There is still a puzzle here though that has to be pieced together. He may have been involved in a break-in around the same time as his attack on Miss. Noel."

"The Tudor house?"

Sandy's expression shifted noticeably to a combination of surprise and 'alert' but he remained silent.

"The inspector who just stopped in to see Tessa mentioned it," Duncan finished. He saw Sandy's expression change and noted it. _What does he know that he's not saying?_ Duncan set the thought aside as 'police business' which he knew they wouldn't reveal. _Odd, Duke's expression never changed. Either he is very good at playing poker, or he doesn't know what his partner does_, he thought.

Duke looked to Sandy then back to Duncan. "Would you mind if I spoke with Miss Noel now?" Duncan shook his head 'No', and Duke reached for the side of the bed to get leverage. The I.V. tether got in his way.

"Grace, would you get this stuff out of me and away." He reached to pull the I.V. line when Grace stopped him. "Get rid of this – give it to someone who needs it."

"Duke, this isn't going to hurt you or anyone else, mortal or immortal. It's just physiological saline." She started dismantling the lines that went to Duke's veins. "Beside you know the rules."

"Yah, yah," he said in an exasperated tone, though not nearly annoyed as much as he was letting on. "Seen getting shot - go straight to the hospital - don't pass 'Go'.".

"What is an immortal doing in here as a patient, in the first place?"

"I was shot in the field. A couple of others – police and paramedics - saw part of my bloody shirt."

"They didn't see you die then 'come back', did they?" Duncan asked, concern in his voice. "When we die in public we are required to leave the area for at least 50 years."

Duke 'huffed' "No - AND not a chance either. I'm not leaving the police force, and Sandy here, alone, to get killed." He made a general sweeping motion with his arm. "I know the 'rules' here – I get shot and Sandy covers for me. I come in here, I have to endure a couple days flat on my back, hospital food, Get-Well cards, flowers, balloons, a few worried faces from the Police force, and I'm out of here for a few days at home – convalescing while I go fishing. I've been paraded through this hospital already with all this stuff connected to me. Everyone has seen me so I've served my time. That's Sandy's job, to keep me from dying in public."

"And it isn't always easy," Sandy said with a grin.

"Does Miss Noel know about immortals?"

"Yes. We had that discussion early on in our relationship. She has seen me fight, and the Quickening. It doesn't bother her. She has been one strong woman. But after last night," Duncan paused not really knowing himself how to put the next sentence into words, "I get the feeling her world has become destabilized. I can't really describe what it is."

"She's mortal, Duncan. She only has one time in this life. I think I might know what's happened – maybe with you too after going through this experience with Tessa because you love her so much. Be patient, and loving, Duncan. I'll talk to her."She finished unhooking Duke's I.V. "Fast or slow, Duke," she asked.

"Fast or slow, what? – **Ouch**!" he exclaimed as Grace ripped the empty I.V. cover (pocket tape) off his arm taking a couple dozen of his manly hairs with her.

"All done." She smiled sheepishly as she packed everything into a Biohazard container.

"That hurt worse than being shot," he grumbled as he reached for a handhold and scooted off the bed. A light knock on the door halted him and he sailed back under the cover.

"Come in Sandy called." A young lady walked in with an enormous bunch of flowers – a small heart-shaped balloon in the center.

"Please say he's going to live," the young girl begged in a small voice, her green eyes welling up with tears.

"He will be as good as new," Grace assured the teenager, knowingly. "It really wasn't that serious and his partner brought him in quickly."

"Oh, thank God," the girl replied, sighing, and set the flowers on the tiny night stand. The massive bouquet swallowed it up. "I don't think I could go on if anything happened to Officer Maxim." She bubbled, glowingly and headed for his bedside.

Duke slowly pulled the covers up over his nose until only his eyes showed. Then he began to moan softly.

"This isn't the best time to visit though," Grace said stepping between her and Duke's bed. He needs to recover from his wounds. He's not feeling the best."

"I know he was so brave out there," she beamed as Grace turned her to the door, and nodded her assurances.

Sandy whispered after they passed. "Work-study student from the high school – got a crush on Duke real bad."

Duncan grinned as Grace closed the door behind the young lady, all the while assuring her that her very handsome police officer would live to return to work.

"By the gods, is she gone," Duke whispered, opening an eye.

"Your admirer has left," Duncan affirmed with a smile.

Duke looked at roses and shook his head. Maybe you could take these to your fiancée. I'm not a rose man.

"Actually I was thinking of bring you some extras. She isn't really a rose woman either.


	5. Chapter 5

**We do not own characters from the Highlander TV Show.**

**Please, send us your feedback!**

Sandy reached into his uniform shirt pocket and took out two small plastic bags, each with bullets inside, and tossed them on Joe Dawson's desk.

"We need to talk. Tell me what you know about this Mark Roszca. Is he a Watcher?"

Joe looked at the two bags lying on his desk then to Sandy, his expression a mixture of conflicting emotions.

"What's all this," he said, slowly glancing up to Sandy and gestured to the bags before him.

"This is the bullet they took out of Miss Noel,"

"And the other?"

"This one came out of the body of Michelle – former mortal companion of the now also deceased immortal, James Fly. On a hunch, I ran the ballistics on this bullet. They match."

Joe grimaced and shook his head. "I was afraid of that after Tessa was shot so close to the house. I was hoping it was just a junky looking for money – a random shooting. I see that it wasn't."

"What's been happening there that I better know about?"

Joe propped against his desk in the private conference room in the bar the Watcher's Council helped set him up with. Joe had recently been promoted. This bar, 'Joe's' was to become the base of operations for Watchers in the area. He knew an already bad situation had just become much worse. "Pallin Wolf was one of James Horton's 'renegade group'. We only recently made that discovery after MacLeod confronted James for killing Darius in the church he served in. Mark Roszca on the other hand, was 'contacted' by James. James used our standard protocol for making '_introductory contact_' with someone to determining if they could become a Watcher. Mark never went through with it, and from what I recently learned, James never broke off contact with him."

"I heard something about a Watcher killing an immortal. It's something I could hardly believe, Joe. That's not what we're here for."

"Observe and record, but never interfere." Joe nodded. "James was one sick man and we never knew." Joe looked away – he was ashamed for his in-law, ashamed too that he was in any way related to him. "James apparently formed a 'special' group of renegade Watchers – 'Hunters' they called themselves – on a crusade to wipe out am 'immortal cancer'. Beside Darius, several other immortals and their watchers went missing recently. The Council never made the connection. Tell you the truth I wouldn't have believed it either if MacLeod hadn't confronted me with what James had done. He nearly killed James in the factory. There are times now I think it would be easier on everybody if he had – and if I hadn't hauled James' near-dead carcass to the hospital. When the Watcher's Tribunal learned that he and his warped group had broken one of our Cardinal Rules – to never harm an immortal – the Tribunal placed him and his group under a **Death Sentence**. They all went underground after that and it has simply been hell trying to find those who were involved. We didn't piece together the Pallin connection until immortal James disappeared then suddenly his watcher couldn't be found either. The Tribunal was sending 'security' to bring Pallin in to execute – I'm going to tell them they don't have to bother. MacLeod did the service for them."

"When – where?"

Joe shook his head again, then sat down and pulled up MacLeod's file on his computer. "I don't understand what happened. MacLeod is not one to kill mortals. Yet he apparently killed Pallin in his house. The question is why?"

"Who's his Watcher?"

"I am, Sandy. But I was sick with the flu for about a week. The 'Bug' was hitting this area and several of my Watchers were down with it too. I just got back to work today. There were a couple of days no one was watching him. I put that new Watcher graduate – Kevin Kilgore, to work finding out what was up with MacLeod the day he arrived. Ha – I can just imagine his shock at having to hit the ground running on his first night out! And what happens? He finally locates MacLeod's car after cruising nearly the whole city; he catches sight of it, coincidentally near Pallin's house - leaving the curb as fast as possible – as if it were on fire! The door to the house was wide open and fortunately he stopped to investigate. He found Pallin's body upstairs. We sent a 'clean up' Watcher's crew to retrieve it before it became public knowledge. I don't know why Duncan went there in the first place and what the hell Pallin was doing with a sword trying to fight an immortal."

"Joe, this is a very complex puzzle, and we don't know all the pieces yet. I do know both these bullets were fired by the same gun, and Mark Roszca was holding it in his hand in at least two cases. My bet is he killed Michelle as well. But what's the motive? Is he simply going after immortals, like James and Pallin did? What about their companions? Is that what Tessa's shooting was about? If so, he wasn't prepared for Duke – he shot Duke. I didn't see a blade on him which tells me he wasn't prepared to kill an immortal. He mustn't have known Duke was an immortal."

Joe could only shake his head. "I wish I knew the answers to all those questions too. I wish I hadn't been sick this past week. Why was Duncan in that area with Tessa and Richie that night? It doesn't make any sense that they would have simply all gone over to Wolf's house to watch Duncan kill a man because he killed another immortal – one that Duncan never even had contact with in his entire life. It is completely out of character for MacLeod." He threw up his hands. "This is what happens when mortal Watchers get sick – time and events stands still for no man." Joe leaned on an elbow, turning over a few sceneries out loud. "Sandy, is it possible that Mark was working as a bodyguard for Pallin – he saw everyone leaving the house, figured MacLeod must have got Pallin and confronted them?"

"Except that doesn't 'wash' with the story Richie Ryan gave at the station," Sandy continued.

"I doubt seriously that all three were out cruising for a romantic moon-light spot so two guys could make love to Tessa. That is **REALLY **not MacLeod. No, something else happened."

"If MacLeod would have been with Richie and Tessa when Mark shot her, either everyone would have been shot, or one of those guys would have gotten Mark. Nothing else could have happened," Sandy interjected.

"We just found out Mark shot and killed Richie. He became immortal that night. But you are right about Duncan. He could not have been with them when Mark attacked. That doesn't add up either." Another set of 'wheels' began turning in Joe's head. He was barely on speaking terms with this immortal – something that was also a Watcher's Cardinal Rule, and could possibly earn him a death-sentence if he wasn't quiet about it. If he really wanted to know what Mac was doing there, he was going to have to ask him.

During Joe's pensive silence, Sandy retrieved the plastic bags. "I didn't get involved with the Watchers to see immortals being slaughtered by psychotic renegades in Watcher's guise. Duke is the best partner I could ever ask for, Joe. I won't simply remain silent if he becomes a target, and let him be beheaded by one of those psychos."

"You're a Watcher – remember?" Joe said quietly, but never met Sandy's eye.

"I'm a police officer first. Partners protect one another. There is a killer on the loose in our city. He's shot four people and killed three – fortunately, two of those were immortals. If I see this guy on the street – anywhere, I'm taking him down - he's a dead man."

Grace placed a gentle hand on Duncan's shoulder, rousing him from sleep. He woke with a start. His senses immediately registering the presence of another immortal and his instinct for self preservation fought to orient him in a split second.

"It's just me," she said quietly so as not to wake Tessa who was sleeping soundly in her hospital bed. "You've been here all day – you were exhausted. I am glad you caught a nap."

Duncan straightened in the poorly padded hospital chair. He winced, just a bit – his muscles were a stiff from sitting in one position for – "How long have I been here?"

She glanced at her watch as she reached for the window shade pull chain. "You've been sleeping in that chair for about an hour or so, but you've been here all day. It's time for you to go home."

He pushed his hair back and re-clipped it. "I don't want to leave Tessa, Grace. She has had a very traumatic experience. Her words – the feeling I get when I held her in that bed – I don't – I can't be apart from her now, She needs – "

"To heal and so do you, Duncan. Your experience was just as traumatic as Tessa's." She sat down beside him. "I am so sorry for both of you," she said, then hugged him close. "She came within a heartbeat of losing her mortal life – the only life she will ever have. And you came within that same heartbeat of loosing Tessa, the first woman in your entire life you have ever asked to marry you. Someone almost took that out of your control – took her away from you."

Duncan rested his face in his hands; his gaze focused on the nondescript pattern the floor tiles made. _Am I that kind of a man_, he pondered. _In the 400 plus years I have existed, I have loved so many, but never once have I even thought of making a commitment to any of them until Tessa. "It the immortal way – we live so long that it's natural not to – It's best not to get mortals too involved because of the 'Game' –." These are the lines I've been handing out to those I've loved – and for what reason? To protect them – or me? What have I been running from? Immortals have been taking mortal mates as long as we have existed. So what's my problem? _Duncan's mind drifted back to 1848 and the Gipsy camp….

_**Flashback - gypsy camp, 1848**_

Her flesh was warm, her scent that of the field and the rich earth. Carmen caressed his cheeks with the softness of her lips, and he responded in kind.

He had known her, loved her, and traveled with them in their wagon these many months. He could not think of life beyond her, beyond her family – their futures together. When their passions cooled, she lay with her long, dark wavy hair draped across his lap and read his palm, tracing the lines in his flesh carefully. Her expression changed and she rose – he followed. She kissed him – then slapped him hard across the face.

"You bastard!" Her voice was raw and it grated on his nerves like a knife. "I am not your whore! I have loved you with my heart, and you have used me." Grabbing her knife she went for his throat. He wrestled the blade from her.

"What are you talking about? Carmen – what have I done?"

Without responding to him further she ran from the wagon shouting for her brother. Standing within the circle, surrounded by her family, she had told them that he was destined to _**never**_marry, but to **bury **many women in his wake.

"You will always be alone," were Carmen's parting words…..

**Present time:**

_The 'Gipsy curse'…. Was Tessa meant to be one of those women I would burry, but never have a chance to marry?_ His mind refused to go any further. He looked up to Grace, unconsciously pleading for an answer.

Grace read volumes from the expression in his eyes. "You both need to heal," she said again gently. But now, it's time for you to go. You have a life – be kind to it."

Duncan rose, smiling at Grace for her quiet wisdom. "I'll be back before she wakes tomorrow –."

Grace cut him off with a finger place purposely on his lips. "No you won't. Tomorrow you'll sleep in. I am going to have a long talk with Tessa. I may even have a private therapy session with her later tomorrow. This is something she has to work through herself. Trust me Duncan. Whatever the issues are she has to bring them out in the open and look them in the eye before she can resolve them. You can't start a marriage with this kind of 'bad baggage'.

_So many immortals have been married,_ his mind reminded him. _Methos has been married more than 60 times; Rebecca Horne, Amanda's teacher, was happily married to Walter, and –. _"Amanda," he said suddenly, remembering. "I have to get home."

As MacLeod's car pulled up next to the building his immortal senses lit up. _Two immortals,_ his mind told him. _Richie and Amanda were both here_. _This I expected_, he told himself. Opening the car door the sound of metal striking hard on another rang in his ears – this was not what he expected to hear! He grabbed his katana, and reaching the door, flung it open – he stopped and stared. There was Amanda and Richie sparring in the living room – Amanda perched on top of an overturned overstuffed chair and Richie on the coffee table.

"What have you two been doing?!" he exclaimed as he glanced around the room and beyond. The living room looked like a bomb had hit it!

"Hi Duncan, Amanda began sheepishly as she climbed off her perch, "I was just teaching Richie some of the moves he'll need to use when he gets a sword." She looked around, the guilt of what they had been doing clearly visible on her face. "Ah – we moved everything to the walls, then – well – I guess we sort of spared our way to the walls ourselves – you know, ah – sword play is an active sport – not something you practice sitting down."

Duncan groaned, a hand to his temple. "In the house? It looks like a war zone! What were you people thinking?" he looked from Richie to Amanda. "What have you been using to spar with? Tell me that isn't –."

"Mac, it's ok - Tessa has tons of these rods she won't miss a few bent ones, beside she fires them anyway until they melt," he said with an equally sheepish grin.

"You've been in Tessa's work shop – what were you doing in –."

"I was doing just what you asked me to do. Give Richie his first instructions."

"In the Immortal Rules – not sword fighting in the living room."

"Mac will you 'chill' for a moment. I know the Immortal Rules. Beside it took Amanda three whole minutes to recite them to me so I could check them off my list. This was way more practical." Amanda added her glowing smile to Richie's energetic hand gesturing.

Duncan wordlessly gestured around the room, as Richie jumped off the coffee table. "Sparring is permanently ended in this house. From now on, as far as both of you are concerned, this is '_**Holy Ground**_', no one – and I do mean no one, draws a sword, or a welding rod in here to spar **EVER **again. Is that clear? The two of you are going to put this house in order – now!" the way Duncan said **'**_**now**_**' **told both combatants that their heads might be forfeited if they didn't comply at once. Richie headed for the broom closet as Amanda began up righting furniture. "Look, I'm going to take a shower then I have to get to bed. I want to see this place as I left it this morning by the time I get out of the shower."

"Duncan, do you need someone to scrub your back," Amanda called after him, wistfully.

"Don't even think it, Amanda," he replied as he shut the door.


	6. Chapter 6

When Tessa woke up the next morning, and Duncan wasn't by her side, she called to the house. Richie answered, and after assuring him, as quickly as she could, that she was healing Ok, she asked for Duncan.

"He's not here right now, Tessa. He said something about meeting an art broker downtown this morning. Acquiring the rest of a private collection he had bid on earlier this year – No, he didn't say when he'd be back. If you need something I can be over there on my bike in about 15 minutes. Hey, Tess – I can't wait for you to come back to us. It really isn't the same here with just Mac." Richie hung up the phone. Tessa sounded really 'down'. If he had to lie in a hospital bed, instead of being home and with people who were family, he would be 'down' too. His thoughts of when he was being confined to his bed, with a bad cold, a couple of times in the orphanage, were not happy times for him either. He could relate to Tessa's situation. He shook it off.

_I'm in the hospital,_ Tessa grumbled to herself as she hung up the phone. _There are more important things here for him than acquiring more art….what was he bidding on?_ Her mind rewound the weeks until she reached the day he brought home a large, padded package. He had fussed over it to the point of annoyance. _You never have been one to be patient,_ she had reminded herself. After all, it was just a package….

Two Months Earlier

"Duncan – I'm dying to see what's in there. How can you be so slow?

"I am not slow, Tess, I am being careful. This single piece is part of a larger collection. Together, they were created in the Inca Empire, five centuries ago. If this little figurine survived that long, I am not the one who is going to break it."

Tessa slipped her fingers around and passed Duncan's. "I know, but it's just taking ages. If you just untied this little knot here –. "

"Don't touch it like that. I want to get into it slowly. There might be something else going on here I don't know about. If the protective cushion falls away too quickly –."

She released his fingers, and threw up her hand. "Ok, ok, I understand."

"_La paciencia es una virtud, amor_" (Patience is a virtue, love)

She cocked her head. "Are you talking to me, Duncan MacLeod?

"Be patient, sweetheart." He chuckled playfully. "How about a little Spanish language lesson? The language of any people is an important expression of who and what they were or are."

A pouty expression formed on her face. "I am patient – for the right occasions."

Duncan raised an eyebrow and chuckled once again. "Oh no, you are not. '_Patients'_ is not your middle name."

"Yes, I am," she exclaimed, a little peeved at this Scott.

"No, you are not," he finished quietly, determined to get the last word in. "Why don't you make us some coffee?"

"Oh, so you want me to leave you alone?"

He stopped unwrapping and put his hands squarely on his thighs. "Tess, you are driving me crazy – just give me a few more minutes and I'll have it open."

"Ok, coffee it is, I'll be back to check on your progress – snail."

"I know, I know." He replied, ignoring the 'nip' at the end of her sentence. Duncan continued working with the wrappings as if he were disarming an atom bomb – full concentration. Tessa's incessant questions were enough to make anyone's finger slip, and hit the trigger!

Tessa had gotten over her tiff when coffee came to him after a welcome 15 minute reprieve from her nattering.

Taking a seat beside him, she looked at the single tiny figurine on the table. "So, tell me. What is this piece about?

The gold statue looked like a stylized kind of llama. _It was truly a work of art, _Tessa pondered_. There is strength in those lines – body is perfectly carved, showing elegance, grace, and strength._ She began peering at it from different angles. There was something different here._ The eyes – they're full of expression, so is the mouth and ears. Not two-dimensional in their gaze; they seemed to be alert, watching for possible hunters. No matter where you look at it, it is always looking at you. I wonder if this is how the living animal really looks from the observer's perspective._ As an artist herself she could sit back and praise whoever created this work._ Whoever did this, with rudimentary tools and materials were a real artist. He or she gets my respect as a fellow artist._

"You said this was part of a collection? Where is the rest of it?

"Like so many cultural finds, this one was taken from its cultural location, probably without permission. It is part of a larger set or group, unearthed in 1999 in Mount Llullaillaco, in Salta, Argentina. The dig site entered a part of history – a part of 'life' that is over 500 years old. This was made before I was born!"

Present time:

"Incan art," she sighed.

A light knock sounded on the door. A moment later, Grace entered dressed in her medical attire.

"Good morning Tessa." Her voice was pleasant, warm and vibrant. "You are looking worlds better than when I looked in on you earlier. You seem to be healing almost as fast as an immortal," she added by way of a light joke." She helped Tessa adjust the angle of her bed then she reached for a chair and brought it beside the bed. "I thought we should have a chat today about what happened to you, and other things."

A concerned look crossed her brow. "Am I Ok? Is something wrong with my wound?"

Grace reached out and took her hand warmly, easing her anxiousness, and reassuring her. "No there isn't. I looked at your chart early this morning. Your blood values are fine and you are healing very well. It won't be long before you're out of here. No one wants you to overstay your welcome." She smiled then averted her eyes for a moment before releasing her hand. "That's not what I am here to talk to you about. I want to talk about what happen to you that night, and how it left you feeling."

"What? How it left me feeling?" _I beg your pardon, _Tessa thought. "I was shot by a teenage-junky looking for drug money. I could have been killed. It happened so fast. How am I supposed to feel?"

"Scared, threatened, violated, angry – and a dozen other feelings you are entitled to. I would just like to talk with you."

Tessa braced in her bed just a bit. "Are you a psychiatrist too? Do you think I need help – that I might be going crazy?" Her tone was testy. "Did Duncan say something to you? I don't know why he decided to run his little errand this morning. He would usually be here now."

Grace didn't respond for a long second, when she did, she chose her words very carefully. "I asked him to give us today – alone. I'm not a psychiatrist – just a friend – your friend, Tessa."

"You did what? Why? I need him – I want him."

"You're in 'pain' inside. Duncan feels it too. He's exhausted. Whatever led up to it, and the shooting, has drained him emotionally."

_Duncan had asked me not to reveal the events that lead up to the shooting – not until he is able to find out more about the situation. I am not about to share this with you no matter how you choose to play 'therapist' with me,_ she thought.

"It would be better for everyone to find a 'release'. I would like you to share whatever feelings you can put into words with me. Sharing always makes things a little better." She shifted gears in her approach. "Being shot is physical agony – I know, I have been in the line of fire myself a couple of times during various nameless skirmishes, or conflicts. Whatever you choose to call them, over the centuries I've lived, I've been there. When you're staring down that barrel, someone else is rolling the dice for you. You never win; the question is simply, how much you are going to lose."

A tear quietly rolled down Tessa's cheek, and Grace had to steel herself from reaching out to comfort her. She had hit a 'raw' nerve. Would Tessa open the door to her psyche just a crack?

Tessa bit her lower lip but remained silent for a long moment. When she spoke her tone was almost accusing.

"You are an immortal, Grace. What could you possibly know about the kind of loss that comes this way? You have all the _time_ in the world to enjoy life, desires, and love."

Sadly, Grace slowly shook her head. "We don't age, or succumb to illness, but immortals haven't all the time in the world, Tessa. The stroke of a sword can end a millennium of living – desires for loving, and to comfort those who love you so much, in a millisecond! Then for us, _times up_ too. Oh, yes Tessa, I do know about the emptiness, the helpless, the desperation that wells up inside. I've loved so deeply, and lost so completely, at the point of a gun – and a sword."

Tessa backed her feistiness down just a bit. _Could immortal Grace actually be a kindred spirit to me in pain? _

"I can't even put into words what I truly feel." She looked briefly to the ceiling. "I see that face and think, "_How dare you steal from me_." Not my rings – not any money, which I didn't have, but _time_ – mytime. Grace, he was taking '_Time' –_ he was reaching into my possible '_future self_' and like some god-damned superior being who was above us all – gazing into his crystal ball, he was saying to me, "_Your life is mine – I decide how much you're going to live, to love – your time is mine to take!_" Her face was flushed, and she took a deep breath before continuing. "You don't think much about death at my age." She paused to collect herself. "It's not the act of suddenly dying that bothers me, it's just – well – every time I replay what happened, I am so angry, frustrated, hurt, and scared of what I am _really_ losing. I hate myself, Grace – for what I am not –and I don't even know why." As she spoke, Tessa began wading the blanket, covering her lap, into her hands – in a strangle hold. Grace noted the emotional turmoil building. "I'm lying there dead," she continued, choking back a sob. "And another immortal steps smoothly in to take my place – into what should be our bed – Duncan and mine's – our future, our time together! What should have been my life with him is gone in a second. I have replayed an alternate reality of what happened that night – I see myself lying there – Duncan holding me, begging me to come back to him, the immortal pain in his breast for me – and I can't respond to him because I am not immortal too." She squeezed her eyes closed to hold the tears back. "In the end, I have given my entire body and being – everything that I have and am to him. Yet I'm nothing more than a brief moment in his life – and a bullet sweeps me aside for someone else – like so much dust in the wind! Oh God, Grace, I love him more than my own life, yet right now all I want to do is shake the stuffing out of Duncan when he comes near me."

"_How dare you be immortal before me? Is that it Tessa?" Her sub consciousness prodded her conscious mind. "You asked him to "grow old" with you once – did you want him to die with you too? Better dead than in the arms of another – immortal? Take a long look at your reflection – do you like what you are seeing? Are you a lady, or a vicious tiger?" _

"I hope that substitute, faceless immortal in the back of your mind, waiting for your demise, isn't me," she said gently.

Tessa averted her eyes and shook her head once but did not respond. Finally, after a long moment, she glanced up to Grace, out of the corners of her eyes. "How well did you know Duncan," she asked, quietly.

_Ok, now we're digging down a little to the root of the issue_, Grace thought. She wet her lips. "I met Duncan the day I thought he came to take my head."

Tessa opened her eyes wide and stared at the immortal physician. "Duncan wouldn't do something like that to a woman."

She raised her eyebrows and stared back. _You really know nothing about immortals, do you?_ "No, Duncan didn't, but there are many an immortal that would. I was just lucky it was him. I was in the middle of birthing a child – it was a hard labor and the woman screamed in pain toward the end. I think that her scream is what attracted his attention at first. The main road was too far away for him to have sensed me as he was riding. We can only sense one another a couple dozen or so yards away. The baby was coming when he charged through the door with his sword drawn."

"What did Duncan do," she asked, trying to picture the man she had lived with, and loved so tenderly, with a sword in his hand – heading toward a defenseless midwife.

"He put up his sword and helped me birth the child. When I finally got the baby and the woman cleaned up, I nodded to him, we walked outside and I closed the door."

The inflection of Tessa's voice shifted. "What did the two of you do in the countryside then?"

Grace caught the hint of, _did the two of you go off somewhere quiet and…._She warmed up for a 'punch' of a reply_. _"You don't understand. It's our Immortal Rules of combat. I understood that he was likely 'calling me out' as it were – to fight to the death, in private. Our immortal Quickening is not a spectacle for mortal eyes. I asked Duncan, when he burst through the door, to wait till I was finished. He acknowledged that request and did not take me away from bringing a mortal life into the world. But when two immortals meet – with a sword drawn – a challenge is being given. He behaved in a dignified manner in that vulnerable woman's presence. When I closed the door behind me, I told him to get it over with, just leave the infant and the mother. I was too tired to run, and I knew I could not out fight him. Yes Tessa, I was staring down that proverbial '_immortal's gun barrel_'. He just chose not to pull the trigger on me."

Astonishment flashed across Tessa's face, and then she looked away to the wall.

"Duncan is my lifeblood and yet I can only hope to enjoy a fraction of his life with him. In the end, someone else is going to swoop in and steal from me." She began to cry softly. "Grace, right now I am so torn up inside with conflicting feelings I can't get my hands on any of it to put it in order. What is really wrong with me?"

She reached out; placing a consoling hand on Tessa's shoulder, then kissed her forehead gently. "I think I know. And I think I know how we can find out." She pushed back the covers. "Let's take a walk."

Grace knocked once then opened the door to the private conference room. It was empty. It was late in the afternoon – unlikely anyone would need it now. She helped Tessa to the couch. Tessa settled herself, pulling her lap blanket around her. Grace disappeared for several long minutes, when she finally reappeared; she locked the door and lowered the lights. Tessa looked around, a bit apprehensive.

"Ok – what are we going to do in here? Are you going to hypnotize me?"

"No. I don't know how to do that. I'm going to help you through guided imagery. It's not the same. You're not going to be a zombie – don't worry."

"Is this supposed to 'cure' me?"

"I can't cure your soul. But you can. Let's see if you can get to where you really want to go this way." Grace lowered the lights further until it was comfortably 'dusk'. She began with breathing, instructing Tessa to relax and focus on a small, almost insignificant, part of the middle of her body – "Watch it start to glow – then expand the 'glow' it until it becomes the entire 'you'." Grace's voice droned softly, as she listened to Tessa's breathing slow. "You are the '_glow'_– you are the '_driver'._ Your body is '_surrounding'_ you – it is just your '_vehicle'_." She felt Tessa relax completely into the couch cushions. "I'm going to place objects into your hand. I want you to take from it what you need to '_go' _where you want to." She slipped a round metallic disk into Tessa's almost limp hand, and asked softly, "What is this?"

Tessa's fingers fondled the object, her sense of touch probing the intricate design on its metallic face – interwoven creases – spaces with holes. _A hair clasp,_ her mind registered.

Grace watched her expressions carefully in the dim light of the room. "Now take yourself to wherever this leads you, and don't be afraid."

Tessa smiled as an image formed in the front of her mind. She saw herself 'moving' to become a part of it.

_His hair was still moist – toweling had sopped up the endless torrent of water the rain had poured onto his head, but it had left him with the rich smell of earth and grass from their earlier romp in the meadow. She was soaked to the skin – steam rose ever so lightly through her loosely-woven pullover – from her warm body now excited by the in odor that was Duncan. She reached with both hands into his dark highland-mane and tousled it, pulling the clasp from the back of his hair. She plunged her face into the tangle and inhaled. "I love you," she heard herself repeat softly,_ and a part of her knew she had whispered those words aloud as well_. "I want to eat you up, I love you so."_

Grace waited until Tessa's expression returned to neutral, until she had lived that 'scene' out in her mind, then she gently exchanged an ornate button for the clasp in her hand.

Tessa's fingers probed this new object. _It is a button – not from anything he is wearing now? Where did it come from?_

Grace let her wrestle with the puzzle a while before she spoke. "Its 1815 – a button from the uniform of a Highland Rifler – Duncan fought with them at Waterloo. He's there now." Grace fell silent and waited, watching as a storm of confusion clouded Tessa's continence. Her expression worked its way through various stages as the 'storm' inside her became a crescendo.

"_He's in a time and place before you were born. What are you willing to do to reach him?"_

"I can't," she whispered softly, to the darkness, to her inner voice.

"_But you can – you must," _her desires fought back her rational thoughts.

"_You know the way,"_ another voice from within called_._ Images, rendered only by Duncan's words, in the retelling of his meeting of Darius, on a field of slaughter, was the roadmap that gave her spirit impetus to travel.

1815

_Duncan walked, stumbled, then catching himself, walked on, carrying his wounded comrade across his back. All about in the snow lay the dead and dying. The pain of Napoleon's war around him was etched in his brow._

_She reached out to those thoughts, which he had instilled by his words. With her desire to be with him, and comfort him, she moved toward him and instead 'touched' a 'glass' in her mind, through which she could not pass. _

"_Let me pass – I must!" Her rational, mortal consciousness fought her irrational desire to escape time – _her _time – the space she was locked into – time that ticked away her fleeting existence in the here and now. On the other side of that dark glass was 'forever' in the form of Duncan MacLeod. She saw him reach for his sword._

"I am Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod."

"I am Darius," came the gentle voice from beneath the worn cloak, the snow covered hood. "You won't need that."

The image began to fade and she fought to hold it – to reach through the impenetrable glass of mortal reality.

Unnoticed by her conscience senses, the button was slowly slipped from her grasp and replaced by a smooth metal cylinder. Carefully her fingers inched along its length, probing for any clues to its identity. It was smooth and seamless. Her sense of hearing grew keen as she waited in the stillness of that darkened room for a sound, any sound that would lead her to Duncan. In the stillness a 'tick' sounded – then another – and –, _what is that?_

_Tick, tick, tick ….._ the sound was relentless – growing steadily louder.

Tessa's creative imagination 'flipped' through the pages of her memory like sheets of her art portfolio until she reached a space and time with no name –

Nul

A dull brown, lifeless, surreal landscape lay before her, broken only by a flat mirror calm sea that seemed to fight for space on the canvases of her imagination. A crisp cliff was rising out of the pool of nothingness.

_Tick, tick, tick ….._ that sound?

_Clocks!_

As far as her minds-eye could see they were there – hanging from branches – draped over geometric shapes – dripping from rocks – floating on the water – _clocks_!

"_They're ticking away time – my time!"_

"There is nowhere to run," her mind heard the words, but she knew not from whence they came. Were they from '_outside'_ – somewhere?

This 'world' which threatened to envelop her was a surrealistic, frightening hallucination. Her mind fought to make any sense of what she was seeing. Out of the confusion, a rational thought surfaced among the branches hung with limp clocks. _Salvador Dali's painting – 'Persistence of Memory'._

"_Face time and defeat it_." The words she heard from _'outside' _were as meaningless as the landscape.

_How? _She queried the unseen speaker. _Time is eternal! _

"_Don't you mean, __immortal__?"_ her subconscious self responded.

_That ticking? It's coming from one clock – where?_

"_Defeat immortality and you stop the clock."_

_I don't understand?_

Before her – draped across the sanddune, was a clock with no numbers, only one strangely shaped hand.

"_Strike! " Her subconscious voice prodded._

_There was something in her hand - heavy and smooth. She felt anger toward the clock. _

"_You thief!"_ she exclaimed and slammed the object in her hand down on that clock's face. The hand slipped from its shattered face – it was Duncan's katana!

Reality

Tessa's eyes snapped open, and she gasped, startled! Shocked by the sudden transition, her mind and reflexes fought to identify the weight that was unexpectedly still in her hand. Bringing it up toward her eyes, she focused – Grace's sword was in her hand!

"My God, No!" she gasped, dropping it with a 'clang' as if it were red hot. Anger filled her eyes – the same anger she had held for that surreal clock, ticking away her time – was now directed at the immortal beside her. "What have you been doing with me? Are you some kind of sick?" She tried to jump to her feet and found herself fighting the pain in her side.

Grace reached out to steady her. "Tessa, who and what were you fighting? Please say it – for yourself and your peace of mind, say it!"

"What have you been doing to me – inside me?" She looked down at the sword, as if she were reviling a serpent. "You put a sword in my hand," her voice rose, furious. "What did you want from me? I could never kill, _like your kind_!"

_And you could never hope to be immortal for him either_, her mind responded. _Your enemy is Time!_

Tessa froze for a long moment, a cold shiver passed through her soul as she heard that final word – _time._ She looked back to Grace. "I'm checking out." Tessa fought through the pain and rose, steady. Grace blocked her path but did not try to touch her.

"It is late and you're not going anywhere this evening," she said in an official, but gentle tone of voice. "If it is medically advisable I will try to get you discharged in the morning. Please, Tessa – whoever or whatever you were fighting – face it!"

"How dare you presume to understand mortal feelings – you intruder! My feelings are _mine_!"

"Tessa, please – I'm not your enemy. The man that shot you brought something to a head. For you to move forward with Duncan, as the wife of an immortal, you must either make peace with this fear, or defeat it. If you don't, it will defeat you."

"We're done here," she said with a tone of absolute finality.


	7. Chapter 7

Richie fastened his helmet on his head, and turned the key in the ignition. The bike's engine roared to life. A fleeting thought crossed his mind; _I should leave a note for Mac._ He was already on his bike – he'd do it next time for sure. Mac said he had gotten a call from Tessa and was heading to the hospital to pick her up. He planned to be away for a while.

This was the third day after the shooting and that killer was still out there – somewhere, he had reminded himself. _Ok, I came back to life, but if I hadn't been immortal I'd still be dead, so I can legitimately call him a 'killer'. Besides, if that bullet had connected with Tessa the way it did with me, she would have been dead._ Not that he had really expected that the police would have found the kid by now.Mac always wants things to be handled in an 'official manner'. _Not to worry Mac, if I find this kid, I will officially kill him – save the taxpayer a little money on the cost of court._ He thought a long moment before sliding back onto the seat and cranking the accelerator. Amanda said it – it wasn't really about him dying and coming back immortal. It was really about the way Tessa sounded on the phone to him the other day. It wasn't what she had said, but the way she had said it – there was fear in her voice coming from her 'core' now – something he couldn't ever remember hearing in the voice of this strong-will Tessa. He could only assume that it was a fear of walking somewhere, sometime, and meeting that shooter once again. _And the next time, neither Mac, or myself, would be there to save her._

He had no idea where to begin looking so, like so many comic books he remembered reading, he returned to the scene of the crime. It was Saturday mid morning, and life in this nice upscale neighborhood was on a slow roll – walk the dog – polish the car – kids with their bikes – 'hot' joggers on the sidewalk. The well groomed lawns, and large picture perfect homes all made what happened at this spot, three nights ago, seem impossible in Richie's mind. _Unless one of these nice well-off families has a 'closet' hit-man in their home this doesn't make sense._ He shook his head and moved on.

The scenery changed very little as he cruised the streets – traffic was light_, _occasionally he passed a group of people with and without dogs – nothing. He had looped around the streets – spiraling out from ground '0', covering miles without seeing anything. The initial 'fire' that had gotten him out the door and on his bike earlier was all but gone. _I could do this all day. Mac and Tessa are probably home by now wondering where I am. Ok – so I'm not the greatest Sherlock Holmes in the world. One spin around that large park, or whatever, and I'm out of here._ There was almost no one around the park in the morning as he road **– **_**wait a moment**_**! **He slowed. Up ahead a block or so, walking besides the row of bushes lining the street-side of the park, was someone in a baggy blue-gray jacked; their hair was partially concealed by a baseball-looking cap. He stopped and focused** –**_** a dark image on the back of that jacket – could it be an Indian?**_The first person met another, who seemed to materialize out of the bushes then the two slipped between the bushes and disappeared.

Richie hit the accelerator then tore through the first opening in the hedge he could find. An instant later he overtook them. Skidding to a halt in front of them, he sent dirt and grass flying in a dozen different directions.

An astonished cry escaped both girls, as they leaped back against the bushes to avoid Richie's bike as it skidded to a halt just a few feet away!

"What the hell? Like the road is that way!"

Richie shoved his visor up – an equally astonished look on his face. He tried to bail himself out in front of two girls who were obviously still in high school. "I'm sorry ladies – uh, girls. Thought I saw a couple of '_hot numbers_' a block away and – well – guess I couldn't help myself – just checking it out."

The younger girl giggled and began 'making ogle eyes' at Richie.

"Hot? You must have x-ray vision back there," she said. "All the good stuff is 'up front'," she finished as coyly as a grammar student could muster a sexy voice, and began tugging on the front of her baggy, but totally flat, tee-shirt.

"I don't know so much about this one," the other girl said, looking Richie over as if he were a used library book. "Kind of a lame pick-up entrance if you ask me," she snipped, pretending to ignore him, whilst attempting to flirt in his direction with her butt.

The image he had seen on the back of her well-worn jacket was a faded peace symbol from a bygone era. Richie seriously considered that this jacket was old enough to collect social security. He beamed a pained smile back in their general direction. _I am so out of here!_ He thought, and slipping back on the bike, rode away. _No more parks for me._

He knew he wasn't supposed to be on the bike trail with his motorbike through the park, but this park was huge, and he hadn't met anyone else riding in the area so he continued.

Suddenly _that _feeling hit him! That _empathic immortal _sense of another's presence; he was nearly shocked off his bike! He hit the break and quickly removed his helmet, looking around. He had 'felt' the presence of Duncan and Amanda after he became immortal. These people he expected to find in certain places – this was unexpected.

"Axel Whittaker," the voice behind him announced, taking him by surprise. "And you are," he asked when Richie didn't immediately respond.

"Richie Ryan," he replied haltingly, uncertain what to say.

"Well, well, if it isn't little Richie all grown up and – just look at you – a new immortal. Will wonders never cease." Axel slowed his pace, carefully glancing around then back to Richie.

"I don't think we've met before," Richie said cautiously dismounting.

Axel shook his head once. "Doesn't matter, I know who you are. You were kind of a punk little kid – always wanting candy from old Mr. Stubbs candy shop," A small chuckle escaped his devious grin. "I remember when 'old' Mr. Stubbs was 'young' Mr. Stubbs. I stole candy out of his jars the day he opened that store – my, my, how time flies when you're immortal."

A very uneasy feeling began working its way from the pit of Richie's stomach up to his jaw. The feeling was growing stronger by the moments. "Nice chatting – let's do it again in another life."

"Not so fast, my young immortal," he began and quickly drew his sword from his oversized jacket. "I'm here to welcome you to 'The Game'." He swung at Richie!

Before he realized what was happening, Axel's blade had sliced through the shoulder and sleeve of his jacket. Richie yelped in pain and jumped to the side as Axel swung again, this time for Richie's head! Turning to run, he stumbled briefly.

Axel bore down on his position, driving the point of the blade into the ground just a fraction of an instant behind Richie's reflexive lunge. Richie was five frantic steps ahead of Axel and heading into the woods. His hands found a lose branch and he released it slapping his pursuer, buying himself a precious few extra seconds to flee. The next branch he grabbed was loose and he swung on Axel with it. The wood was no match for a steel sword, and it snapped on contact, Axel raked Richie's side on the return swing.

_There's never a good welding-rod when you need one,_ he thought frantically. He spun with the sword stroke against his side, lessening the impact it had on his flesh, then threw the branch stub at Axel, and jumped him. Against an experienced sword-wielding immortal, Richie knew he had no chance to survive, but in a fistfight, they were fairly equal. Knocking him to the ground they went back and forth, both Axel and Richie connecting with their punches. At one point Richie thought his fist had stunned Axel and he reached across his body for his sword. But the immortal caught him in a leg-scissor and flipped him on his back, then reached himself. His hand found his sword and he arced it high up and over to the other side of his body – where his mind had placed Richie's last move.

The moment Richie had landed on his back he had rolled quickly to his knees and sprang just, as Axel's sword came down. He ran, as fast as he could, back to his bike, grabbed his crash helmet and shoved it on his head, then jumped on his bike, and turned the key in the ignition. A split second later he felt the force of Axel's blow against his crash helmet as the sword connected - he had swung for Richie's neck! The force of Axel's swing tore the helmet off his head, and he was thrown off balance, overturning his bike on top of his leg as he fell!

Axel stepped toward the overturned bike, then raised his sword above his head with both hands for a killing blow.

Grabbing the handle bars, Richie turned the front wheel hard-over against Axel's leg.

Axel was caught off balance and sidestepped against the rear wheel. Richie gunned the engine, and Axel was spun to the ground by the force.

Squirming out from under the bike, he ran with Axel trailing. _A public place – I have to get somewhere where there are people, _he thought frantically, trying to remember if this park had a play area, sidewalk cafes, or something, somewhere in it. Topping the knoll, he saw a group of small park-cafes near a large fountain in the distance. _Only one car – please let there be a crowd inside_. Richie didn't spare a second to look behind himself to see how close Axel was – he could hear him. _Please – let me be out of the reach of his sword! I've been an immortal for only 72 hours or so and my head is already on the chopping block – Mac, if I survive this I promise to stay home like you told me to until I am trained! _Suddenly, in the middle of his fleeing steps, he felt the presence of a _**second**__**immortal. **__Oh no – now they're coming out of the woodwork after me!_ His heart was pounding in his throat and he frantically thought, _I'd have had a heart attack and died by now – if I weren't an immortal – little good that is going to do me if he catches me. _Richie didn't know which way to run anymore. As he swerved toward a row of dense trees, Amanda stepped from behind the second one, sword in hand. Axel slowed. Richie continued to the farther tree then bent over, a hand on his knee for support. Gasping for breath he looked back at his pursuer.

Axel halted well out of the reach of Amanda's sword. "You can't interfere," Axel said pointing to Richie. "The battle is 'joined'.

Amanda gave Richie a quick sideways glance then refocused on Axel. "Oh really? Don't see a sword in his hand. Did Richie challenge you with his bike?"

"Doesn't matter," and Axel began slowly maneuvering around Amanda toward Richie. "He's an immortal – same as we are. He's part of the 'Game' now."

Amanda deliberately stepped in front of Axel. "Usually it is acknowledged that they are trained by one of us first before they meet their first challenge." She eyed him with an expression reserved for smelly trash. "What happened to your last sweet, very young, girlfriend – I don't see her around you any more. Didn't lose something important – like her head, did she?" She raised her sword, and Axel backed up a step. "I've heard you like to 'rob the cradle' as it were. Your first death came over a 14 year old girl you – uh – seduced. Her father, a minister I believe, put a bullet in you. For the last almost 400 years you just keep coming back for younger and younger girls. I guess old habits never change – except this time they're alone and immortal. The trouble is I never seem to see the same one with you for very long (Data drawn from "The Watchers Chronicles" disk). I suggest you take a walk, unless you want to try and take me."

Axel glanced to Richie then back to Amanda. He played with the idea of going for her head for a long moment – before _immortal sanity_ kicked in. _There is no way I am going to take Amanda down – not under these conditions – maybe someday. _He smiled then made a short bow and walked away.

Richie finally took a deep breath – the first one since he encountered Axel. "Thank you Amanda. I was beginning to think my life as an immortal was about to become a whole lot shorter than anything I could ever expect to have as a mortal."

Amanda ran an experienced hand over Richie's slashed and blood-stained jacket. She shook her head briefly then put a friendly hand on his shoulder. "Ok Richie, what are you doing out of the house without Duncan? You know what we both told you – there are immortals out here," she made a wide sweeping gesture. "Most of us – well – some of us, respectfully walk away from a new immortal – we can sense a new one."

"How?"

"Sort of the way the _energy_ feels when we first meet them. And if they don't have a sword in their hand, the better immortals will leave them alone – at least the first time they meet."

"And I take it Axel isn't one of the 'good guys'?"

Amanda wrinkled up her brow and shook her head once. "Not even close. So where's your bike?"

"I stopped when I sensed an immortal – he kind of took me by surprise. It's over that raise – up there, by the bike trail. I was just getting use to sensing Mac and you – and well this is only the third day." He shook his head. "I should have just kept going and not stopped. This is all just too new yet." He ran a hand through his damp hair and looked around absently. Do you know it's only been about 72 hours since I woke up immortal in the trunk of Mac's car? Mac was coming out of the hospital emergency exit when I popped the top. I didn't even get to get out. He came up and told me to stay put and slammed the lid on me again! What a way to begin immortal life."

"He couldn't have you jumping out of the car, by a hospital emergency entrance, looking like something out of the 'Walking Dead'." She patted his shoulder. "Still didn't answer my question – what are you doing out here?"

"That guy is still out here – somewhere."

"The shooter? I thought you were going to let it go?"

"Not for me, Amanda – for Tessa. Look, I got what you said to me the other day – I'm immortal now. I don't know – he probably did me a favor – maybe I should thank him. But the police haven't found him or they would have called me in to make a positive I.D. – he's still out there, and Tessa is scared. She didn't say it – I heard it in her voice when she called the house. She's only going to go around once in this life, Amanda, and she doesn't want to be looking over her shoulder every time she steps out of the house. I don't know what that guy was all about. He could see she didn't really have anything on her that would be worth killing for. Mac's T-bird isn't exactly a Rolls-Royce either." They started toward where he left his bike.

"The police thought it was some junky looking for money – that's what you said, right? So he's probably long gone from here by now. The street you said it happened on isn't exactly a slum."

"You can say that again. I road by that spot, and through that neighborhood, this morning. I can't believe anyone would litter let alone shoot someone there. They must scrub those houses with bath brushes every other weekend." He shook his head. Reaching his bike he stood it up on its kick-stand, then picked clumps of grass-roots out from under the fender and chasse while Amanda retrieved his helmet.

"It's nice to know your helmet can handle a sword stroke. Looks like that's the only thing that saved you neck." She pointed to the long deep abrasive streak at the base of the helmet, near what would have been his collar.

Richie stopped cleaning his bike and took the helmet. There was a very somber look of realization in his eye. "I had just shoved that helmet on when I felt his blade hit it and catch the edge right here. It felt like a cannonball hit the back of my head, then the helmet was ripped off. My head would have been off already if it weren't for this.

Amanda looked away briefly. Her eyes were getting moist. _Must be the sea air,_ she told herself, then coughed and changed the subject. "How is Tessa healing?"

"Good I guess. She called early this morning – she is being discharged already. Mac is picking her up now. He said he would be late coming back – probably wants to take her somewhere private as sort of a welcome home thing."

Amanda looked down to the ground and away from Richie. "That's great," she said very quietly. "I'm glad she's doing – uh – better." She fell silent.

Richie watched Amanda for a long moment then got to his feet. Setting the helmet on his bike, he walked over and slipped a friendly arm around her waist. "Look," he began a bit hesitantly. "Tessa and Mac – they've been together a number of years before I came along. They sort of took me into their lives before I became immortal, and – well, we've sort of been a family, Amanda. I don't know what's going to happen with me down the road – when Tessa finally becomes 'Mrs. MacLeod, I mean, but this is the way Mac wants it for now. You're an immortal Amanda. Could you let it be Tessa's turn for a while with Mac?"

Amanda finally looked back to Richie, her big eyes meeting his, and gave a non-committal nod then sighed. "You've got me there, kid. I've never been good at sharing anything. Guess when you grow up a starving street girl in a plague-infested city you learn to 'take' and not give. I've never been good at waiting behind someone to take 'my turn'."

Richie turned her to face him. "It's not my fault – officer, it's my bad childhood," and he gave her a knowing, experienced expression. "I used that line myself more times than I can count. Guess we both have one way or the other – except it wouldn't be the truth would it? I had a couple of good people before, and when, I was in the orphanage. One family even let me stay with them on and off for a couple of years – they were really good. Not that I didn't have good people now and again, I just chose not to listen sometimes and things really went wrong. Of course Mac and Tess have been like a real family to me. I heard you had a pretty good mentor yourself – Rebecca Horne."

"Yah," Amanda sighed. "I was killed stealing a loaf of bread from a plague house in the early part of 8th century. She took me out of that cart full of our city's dead, taught me everything I needed to survive as an immortal, gave me a lot more than just an education. A real princess to me – a pauper. I was 'street trash'."

"You were just a starving girl. I can't imagine that I would have done any different if I would have lived then. But this isn't 'then' Amanda."

She stared into his eyes, a bit puzzle. "Are you sure you haven't been around a lot longer than you look?" She put her arms around his neck.

Richie followed suit, and pulled her close. Then glanced as far down as his eyes could on her body before meeting her warm flesh. "You're really 'hot', Amanda. The first time I saw you on Mac's barge I could have – well, you know. But now that I'm immortal, and – well – you've sort of been here for me – helping me keep my head on my shoulders – like today with Axel, I feel if I did anything with you – more than what we're doing right now – that is, it would be like I was doing it to my **big sister.** I hope you take that as a complement, because that's the way I mean it."

Amanda pulled back, her jaw dropped open – for the first time in her life, she was utterly speechless. _What?! _She thought. _You think of me – Amanda, as your big sister!?_ It took her a very long moment to recover from that shock. "Thank you – I think," she finally said haltingly, and released her feminine grip on his neck and shoulders. "Well then – 'brother', shouldn't we both go and see how Tessa is doing?"

Richie gave her a varying knowing expression. _Ok, you mink….haven't we been over this 'share' thing….come on…I might not be 1100 years old but I'm not dumb._

"Look – the truth, Richie. When Tessa, Duncan, and I met the last time, things didn't – well – go as good as it should have. We immortals need each other – our immortal friends that is, and I just want to try and smooth things over with Tessa since she is obviously going to be a part of Duncan's life for – a while – however long that is. Duncan has already made up his mind to marry her, Richie. He and his 'boy scout rules' about honor, loyalty, and monogamous devotion – that's Duncan all over, and he's not going to change for anyone. He makes people like me better for knowing them. But we're all going to be in and out of each other's lives from time to time, and Duncan knows it too. We've done a lot of 'things' for each other – getting out of tough spots over the centuries and it would be better for everyone if Tessa accepted this before something comes up." _It would be better too if she understood that 'mortal' means very temporary in Duncan's mind also, _Amanda thought privately. Then glancing back to where Richie was walking, '_Sister' – hum? You learn something new every millennium_. In a way, she was starting to like the sound of that.

"Sir," a young male voice called. "There are no motorcycles allowed in the park."

Richie turned to see a bicycle officer approaching. _Crap! He thought, Ok, a smooth line should bail me out of this one…._ "Sorry officer, I was just – haven't we met somewhere before? The station?"

Officer Kilgore removed his helmet. "Mr. Ryan? Yes, at the station. What are you doing in the park with your motorcycle?"

"Look I was on the street when I saw a couple of cute '_numbers'_ – well – I thought they were anyways. Turns out they weren't as 'hot' as I thought and they started 'hitting' on me, so I split."

"Through the park?"

"Look, it was ANYWHERE away from them – I didn't think, Ok? Then my bike – uh – broke down suddenly, and I just found a – mechanic here." He looked to Amanda.

Amanda nodded vigorously. "I'm very good with my hands," she added, giving him a totally innocent smile – sort of like the one a cat would give whilst trying to deny swallowing the canary.

" Ok. Just run it over to the road by the coffee shop – that way," he motioned in the direction they had just come.

"Thanks, I will. Say, did the police catch that guy – the one who shot Tessa, yet?"

"I haven't heard anything. But then again, I don't work in investigations yet. I'm on park patrol now, later I'll be doing something else. Are you looking for him now?"

Richie tried his best to play the question down, but he knew his expression had already given his intent away. "Well, if I did, I mean, it would help you people." It was a lousy line delivered very unconvincingly. He walked his bike a ways before mounting. Amanda got on behind, her long, light jacket draped carefully around her on the seat. Richie Ran the motor as quietly as he could.

Officer Kilgore stared fixated after them._ That was 'The Amanda' – Wow! And they say a junior Watcher doesn't get to meet the legendary immortals. Wonder what heist she's in town for? I hope to see her in action! I'm going to check the Cultural column when I get back to the station maybe the art galleries –_

A Frisbee landed near his feet breaking his stare. A jogger switched off the trail to retrieve it. "Being a little too obvious aren't you?" The female voice said quietly. The jogger reached for the Frisbee, exposing her Watcher's tattoo. "Amanda's covered – focus on your immortal," she finished and jogged off in the direction of the receding pair. He sighed. Nothing like Amanda's Watcher to throw a wet blanket on his fun. He took out his recorder and logged a few notes about Richie. _He's after that guy alright, but if he doesn't get a sword soon he won't have his head on his shoulders with Axle around. A pity, I'll get reassigned. I was hoping that I could keep this immortal. He knows Duncan MacLeod – now that's one immortal I want to see fight. In the Watcher's Academy they said his sword work is legendary._

Duncan helped Tessa out of the car. He had stopped just a few feet from the door so she wouldn't have far to walk. He would re-park it later. Reaching quickly, he turned the key in the door then went to aid Tessa. But Tessa was at the door before he could offer her his hand. She pushed it open as fast as she could then slid around the wall as if this familiar place was her refuge from the nightmare experiences of the last 72 hours.

Duncan followed a moment later with the hospital bag which held the blood stained clothes she was wearing when she was shot. His foot had just crossed the threshold when she grabbed him – wrapping her arms around him – holding him – her lifeline to protection.

"I'll just close –," he reached back to close the door. Tessa never loosened her grip; instead, she pulled him closer.

"The door can wait – I can't." She buried her head in his neck, his hair his collar – anything that could hide – would hide her from the world outside, from which she had just escaped. "Oh God, Duncan, I'm home – really home. I never thought I'd see this place again." She kissed him again and again.

_Not with the warmth and deep feeling of love,_ the passion he knew was Tessa, but – _with the feeling of desperation – a gratitude for my rescuing her? From what? The hospital? From Grace? _Duncan was confused, but he didn't refuse her kisses. She was frightened by _something_, and Grace had made that clear during their 'extended' check out time by admissions.

"She's frightened, Duncan. Very frightened," Grace had said quietly, after getting Tessa started on a rather extended discharge protocol with her young assistant, and pulling him aside. "She's fighting with someone or something _inside_ herself. She won't speak to me about it."

"Considering what she's been through, it's understandable." He paused, glanced about, then back to Tessa. "There is a lot more to all of this then what has been said."

Grace gave him a quizzical look. "What do you mean? What else happened to her?" Tessa was working her way through the last form. She glanced around to Duncan.

"I don't want to talk about it right now. Later, Grace."

"Just hold me, Duncan – never let me go again. I never want to leave this sanctuary. Too much precious time has been lost already."

Duncan smiled, then he pulled her back, away from his body so she could see his face. "Sweetheart, you're safe here with me. What happened was the work of a maniac. I never had a chance to find out who he was or what this was all about. What happened those few days just makes no sense to me. Did he say anything to you? Did anything happen to you while you were being held prisoner that might give me a clue?"

Tessa shook her hair back then pulled him to the couch. Her wound was still a bit sore and she was physically tired. _Why can't I heal like an immortal? Pain is such a waste of time – my precious time! _She thought. "I don't know really know what he was about either. I was kept blindfolded until I was led into that room up stairs. He kept me chained – I escaped once, but he recaptured me. Duncan, he was obsessed with a sword – he always carried it. The only thing he kept saying was, "_He'll come…Just wait and see…they always do._"

"'_**They always do**_'," Duncan repeated, then thought for a long moment. His mind rewound the events of the past week. "He called and left the address with Richie – he was expecting me – he was wearing some kind of infra-red, night vision when I found him in there. He switched off the lights – ." He paused…._he had a sword – not a gun. Was he a psycho? Or, was he __**expecting**__ an immortal?_ _What did he mean by, "…He'll come…they always do?'" "_Tessa did he say anything else – anything at all that would suggest he had a vendetta against me, or immortals?"

Tessa hugged a lap blanket to herself and slowly shook her head. ""That's all he kept saying. He was like a parrot, repeating himself constantly." She looked into his eyes. "He wasn't an immortal? I assumed he was. He came after you with a sword – not a gun?" An awful feeling began to creep into her soul. "He kept parading around with that sword. Oh God, what was he? He must have done this before."

Duncan's mind riveted itself on one name – _**Horton**_!_ Was this man one of those 'Watcher-hunters' too? _He took a deep breath, but did not share his thoughts with Tessa. "I'm going to check the computer. I need to know a little more about who owns that house."

"Why should we care? He's dead in there anyways. It's over – isn't it," she added when she saw the look in his eyes. "Oh, please Duncan, say it is. I don't want to think –,"

He hugged her to his breast. "Shhh. You're safe here." Slowly, he brought her back, his reassuring hands on her trembling shoulders. _Tessa, _He thought, _there is a dead man laying in that house – I haven't heard a word about it the entire time you have been in the hospital – well, not that I have been listening to the news 24/7, but a find like that would come to everybody's attention one way or the other. Wait a minute…officer Maxim mentioned they thought there was a break-in at that house that night. Someone from the police department has already __**been**__ to the house and must have checked. Either the police are keeping the death a secret or –, _He smiled back, gently. "I need answers, sweetheart, that's all." _I think I know who might be able to confirm my suspicion – if I can get him to talk – Joe Dawson._

"Why don't you lie down for a while sweetheart."

She shook her head. "That's all I've been doing, and I don't feel any better for it – in fact I feel worse." She pushed away from Duncan and rose. "I'm going to try and do some work today. Maybe it will make me feel better." She took a step in the direction of her work shop, then stopped and slowly looked around the room. Her keen artistic eye suddenly registered the subtle differences in the room's arrangement and décor -_ this room has all been rearranged, and this thing has appeared – all since my kidnapping._

Duncan rose with her, and seeing her looking about, tried to follow her gaze. "What is it?"

"You've rearranged all the furniture, and – over there, added a new cloth wall-hanging – by that sconce. I see now why you were too busy to …"

"Busy for what? A new wall-hanging? Where?" Duncan looked around the room. _Everything is clean and looks 'normal' to me. What is Tessa seeing?_

Tessa waved her hands in a large sweeping motion indicating the 'room'. "Look around, Duncan. The furniture – nothing is where it was before." She walked to the wall and stared at the long, tightly knitted, cloth which hung haphazardly in a 'relaxed' form from the sconce. Tessa folded her arms. "Hum – it looks a bit gaudy and out of place given the print hanging next to it. Where did you get this?"

_Oh no, for the love of - ,_" he thought placing a hand on his forehead. "I didn't rearrange the furniture, Tess. Richie and Amanda did that."

"**WHAT**!?" She exclaimed, and whirled on Duncan. Grabbing her side as twinge of pain shot through her, she took a deep breath. "What in hell was Amanda doing in here rearranging our furniture?"

"Tessa, would you just calm down –," Duncan began, his outstretched hands motioning for her to 'tone it down' as he saw the 'volcano' in her threatening to explode. But Tessa was just getting warmed up.

"What do you mean 'wait a moment – calm down' – Duncan. This hanging thing looks like -,"

"It's Amanda's scarf, she must have tossed it up –," he began as he reached to pick the scarf off the sconce.

Tessa beat him to it. Furious, she grabbed it, ripping it and the sconce off the wall! "Wait? For what – me to be 'gone –," _or dead?_ she thought. "Before Amanda 'the clean-up vamp' sweeps in and starts changing the house – what was once my life – our lives – what?"

"Calm down, Tessa! Richie and Amanda were sparring in the house and –."

Wadding the scarf angrily in her hands, she threw it on the floor and **stamped on it**. "Oh now our home is a training ground for immortals?" She swept an arm in the direction of the couch and chair as she walked around the room – a room she now viewed as 'foreign'. "And I suppose they were sword fighting on top of our couch, chairs, and table – though the refrigerator would have been a bit too high to scale without a ladder," she continued, sarcastically. "But didn't you tell me Amanda is an accomplished cat-burglar. Why she could have swung up there from the chandelier – if we had one in the kitchen!"

Duncan grimaced. "I wasn't here Tessa, I was at the hospital with you when it happened. They moved all the furniture to the walls so it wouldn't be in the way."

A large foot-print shaped mark on the top-back part of the overstuffed chair caught her attention. "I see someone must have fought their way up the side of the 'castle' on this. I'm actually amazed, nothing is demolished in this 'arena' - there are no sword slashes on anything."

Duncan cringed as he followed her angry pacing in the direction of her work shop. "They weren't using swords, they were using –,"

Tessa stopped by a large, tall vase at the end of the living room, near the door to her work shop. There among the corkscrew willows, reeds, and other decorative dried plants, were four bent, twisted, and generally deformed metal welding rods – **her **welding rods from **her **art work shop. Slowly she picked them out of the vase. "Oh, I see. So after she finished rearranging the furniture in our home, Amanda found her way into my private, and very personal, art room and began randomly picking through my things and re-arranging whatever. Is that what happened? So now I should go into **HER** space and see what artistic creation **SHE** has managed while I was 'out'."

Duncan squeezed his eyes shut and taking a very deep breath, exhaled loudly. "Tessa," he exclaimed, his voice elevated, "That's not what happened. It's not what you think."

Turning, she waved a hand full of welding rods in his direction forcing him to jump aside. "Then what **DID** happen here? What should I think, Duncan?"

Suddenly Duncan's immortal, empathic senses lit up - there was another immortal near. Tessa, in the midst of her 'meltdown' didn't catch is subtitle acknowledgement. _Wait a minute, not one, but __**two **__immortals – Oh, that's just great! "_Why don't we go into the bedroom now, sweetheart?"

"Not a chance. I'm in the mood for war, not love."

"Knock, knock, Duncan," Amanda called as Richie opened the door. "Did you miss us?" She slid smoothly past Richie.

"**Amanda!**" Duncan growled.

"Mac, you won't believe what happened to us in the park."

"Oh, I could believe just about anything," Tessa replied, her tongue razor sharp. "Why don't you enlighten us on your 'romp'?"

Amanda froze at the tone. Her hands nervously straightened her shirt as if she were preparing for an interview – or a police grilling. "How are you feeling Tessa?" she began carefully. "I'm glad you're out of the hospital and back home." She took a cautious step forward, toward her. "I was hoping you would be here - I wanted to talk with you a little while."

"About rearranging the furniture to your taste perhaps?" She motioned in a broad sweep around the room. Stabbing the scarf on the floor, she lofted it into her hand. "Or you're idea of artistic décor on our sconce – I must say it certainly wasn't 'la epitimy de syle artistique' (the epitome of artistic style). And while we're on the subject of art, I was just on my way to my **private** art studio to critique your latest creations. You must have been quite busy in there – pawing around in my personal things during my absence - judging by this," she thrust her angry fist full of bent welding rods in her direction. A mock startled expression formed over Tessa's furious one. "Or maybe I **should** go to the bedroom – that **IS** where you wanted me to go earlier, isn't it Duncan? On second thought why don't we **all** go – see what surprises Amanda has in store for me in **OUR** bedroom – or do you already know, Duncan? "

"That's enough – stop it Tessa!" Duncan all but shouted at her.

"Chill Tessa!" Richie said as carefully as he could over MacLeod's irritated din. "It's not what you think – nothing's been happening here. Amanda just -,"

"Amanda's _**just **_everything! She's Wonder Woman – is that's it?"

"She saved my head today," Richie exclaimed, turning so his slashed, blood stained jacket was visible.

Tessa hardly noticed. Her eyes were riveted on Amanda. "That's just wonderful Richie – it's nice to have at least one of them on your shoulders."

"Look Tess," Richie began apologetically waving his hands, "Amanda was just showing me how to fight. We shouldn't have done it in here, Mac gave us hell for that; and, we shouldn't have taken your welding rods without asking – I'm sorry – we're sorry, but please – chill! The world isn't coming to an end over four bent rods. You fire those things anyway.

"Look Richie," Tessa began and took several steps towards Amanda. "This isn't about you, so why don't **you** chill! This is about her – that immortal **Mata Hari,** slinking into my private world, my bedroom –"

"I haven't been in there – I haven't done anything," Amanda replied, shaking her head, alarmed, and began shrinking against the wall under Tessa's vicious stare.

"Into my **life,"** Tessa continued, pointing at Amanda with the welding rods as if they were lightning bolts in her hand. "You can't even wait one half of one normal, mortal life time, before you want to sink your female claws into Duncan. Well, here's a news flash – I'm not dead yet! So, why don't you step out for a coffee for the next 25 years or so. That's nothing for an immortal, I hear. When you get back, you can start 'playing house' by sweeping the dust of my bones off this floor. Until that day, take your horrible taste in art, clothing, and yourself, **get out of my life,** and leave **US** alone!" She flung the wadded up scarf at Amanda, hitting her square in the face. Amanda collected herself and quietly, quickly, left.

Duncan was furious. "Richie would you excuse us – please – outside." Reaching out he grabbed Tessa, pulled the welding rods from her hand and threw them on the floor, then marched her into their bedroom. His grip on her arm was rough – rougher than he had planned, and he silently cursed himself for his temper with a woman who had just gotten out of the hospital.

Tessa felt his anger directed at her, something completely new. Since the first day of their relationship he had never once shown her an angry side. For a brief moment she felt fear. _Duncan is angry at me – is this how those he fought met him – an angry Highlander, sword in hand? Only the bravest could have wheeled a sword against him, his anger alone would have caused all others to flee. But not me! Sword or no sword, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, I will not shrink from you!_

The bedroom door was slammed shut behind them. Duncan released Tessa near the bed, backing up a couple of steps, closed and rubbed his eyes, then took a deep breath. He needed to calm down and focus. This was not the Tessa he knew a week ago. "Tessa, it would really help both of us right now if you could explain what is going on between you and Amanda."

"Nothing is going on; she doesn't have to do anything you know, except wait."

"Wait? What are you talking about?" he said, his hands trying to massage the tension from his temples. _Encouraged her to speak, Grace said – she is at war with someone inside._

"And surprise," she continued sardonically, "She doesn't even have to wait until I am stone cold dead, either. A few more years and I will be old enough to be **YOUR** mother. She's had more than one look at our bedroom, no doubt – getting ideas on how to change the décor to match her awful taste in colors!"

"Tessa, you're just plain mad – you're not saying what's really on your mind either."

"Oh, are you going to try to psychoanalyze me too? Is that what this is all about? Are you going to play 'Grace' with me?"

"You know this is getting us nowhere. Nothing has happened between me and Amanda, in your lifetime. I am an immortal - that is all any mortal can ask. Let's stop right now before either of us say something we'll regret for the rest of our lives."

"You are going to regret it much longer than I ever will." She replied, bluntly.

That remark **really** hurt Duncan, and he had no intention of hiding how he felt. _Tessa had always been totally understanding since the very beginning. She has never had time to assimilate how her life had been turned on its ear – changed upside down. She is just venting her fears and frustrations,_ he told himself_._

"Look, Tessa, I have no idea what you are so angry about right now. Amanda is my friend – just a friend, and nothing else. Immortals need other immortals as friends. No one knows what is going to happen as we near the time of the 'Gathering'. I have never really explained it to you – I'm not sure I totally understand it all myself. I will say it again – Amanda is just a friend, and you know it. She was standing out there just now trying her best to start a conversation with you – smooth things over. She is not the most eloquent of people when it comes to this sort of thing."

Tessa placed both hands on her hips. "Really? I thought that immortal was French – and has been all over France, **THE** capital of etiquette. Oh, come on Duncan, you know what she really wants."

"Enlighten me."

Tessa turned away and fumed silently._ I won't dignify that with an answer! _She thought.

"Tessa – sweetheart," he began, with all the control he could muster. "I have asked you to marry me. I have never asked that of any woman – not mortal, and not immortal. In other words, you aren't just one-in-a-million, you're **one in forever**. Marriage is about commitment and trust. And if you feel you truly can't trust me – or don't trust me –," he paused and took a deep breath, "Then you can't marry me either."

Tessa whirled, and looked him straight in the eyes, gave him a piercing stare.

"I'm going to step out for awhile now – I don't know how long. We both need some time to think things over, cool down and decide what we want to really do between us. If you don't feel you can talk to me and tell me the truth – what's really bothering you now, this isn't going to work with us anymore. You decide."


	8. Chapter 8

Duncan turned and walked purposefully out of the bedroom – scooped up the bent welding rods as he passed through the living room without breaking his stride, and out the door he walked. Tossing the rods in the back seat of his T-bird, he thought for an instant then turned back to the house door. _No matter how angry I am with her, or hurt I am feeling now, Tessa is going to be kept safe inside._ Reaching in, he flipped the lock then closed the door. He looked up the alley. Richie and Amanda were waiting near the far corner of the building. He joined them. "Richie I'd like to know why you left the house when I asked you to stay?" He gave the slashed jacket a cursory examination. "You could have lost your head – 72 hours after becoming immortal you would have been gone – permanently."

"Yah, I know," and he held up his helmet. The large mark near the base gave Duncan pause. "Axel Whittaker – he took my helmet off with his sword – literally."

"You haven't answered my question."

"One word answer – Tessa. That killer is still out there."

"Tessa's alive."

"**Hello!** – I died."

"You're an immortal."

"I wasn't – that means it _**does**_ in my book." Richie lowered his head, looked to the ground, then back, up to Duncan. "Look Mac, this isn't about me. Amanda and I have been over this already. It's about Tessa. That what I just heard in there wasn't the Tessa I know – not by a long shot. She's scared to death, because he's still out there. I would be too if I were still mortal."

"Tessa is my responsibility, Richie. I'll take care of her."

Richie slowly shook his head. "You're not Super Man, Mac. There are too many things coming and going with you with what happened. You need to let more people 'in' on this."

"In on what?" Amanda asked, peering around Richie's shoulder and into his eyes.

Richie exhaled loudly, a bit exasperated. "Mac, I've been back by there where it happened, and all through that neighborhood. Unless there's a 'Jekyll-and-Hyde' in one of those expensive homes, this had to be 'connected' to what happened to Tessa."

"Connected to what? Duncan what's this all about?"

Without waiting for approval from Duncan, Richie spoke up. "Tessa and I weren't simply walking down the street together when we were shot – Tessa was kidnapped by some guy – apparently to lure Mac to his house where he tried to kill him."

"What!? Which one of 'us' was it?"

"It wasn't. He was mortal. He's dead now – I killed him. I never got any information about him. Tessa and Richie were both shot shortly after they left the house. I wasn't with them or I would have gotten him before he shot her," Duncan finished.

"So you think," Richie chimed in.

Amanda gave her head a confused shake. "So someone had something against you. He came up with an elaborate plot to get you in his house to shoot you? Why didn't he just come here, wait outside, and shoot you when you left the house – or anyplace?"

"He came at me with a sword, not a gun, and it's more complicated than that –," he motioned to Richie. You fill her in – you might as well anyways." Retrieving his car keys, he turned back to the pair. "Look – what happened in there just now – I'm sorry. This wasn't the Tessa I knew a week ago. Be that as it may, Richie, I would give her some 'room' for a while. And as for you Amanda -,"

She threw up her hands in a mock, '_I surrender_' gesture. "I'm taking a coffee break for the next 25 years – remember?" Duncan gave her a serious scowl.

"You don't have to worry about protecting my head for a couple of days," and he looked to Amanda. "I think I'll 'hang' with Amanda for a while."

Duncan favored both of them with a very surprised stare.

His expression elicited a big grin from Amanda, who was clearly amused by !the surprise. "Come on – 'brother'," she said with a wink in Richie's direction.

Richie shook his hands in a gesture which said '_it's not what you think_'. "I'll explain later," he said turning to follow her to her car.

Leaning back against the T-bird, Duncan exhaled, and bending over placed both hands on his knees for support and tried to stretch his upper back. He couldn't remember the last time he ached like this. His shoulder muscles were stressed – his head ached from trying to deal with an emotional situation he had little to no real experience with. As he stood completely motionless, the shadow cast by his shoe toe slowly slipped over a near by pebble with nothing new happening in his life, he noted. _If I stand perfectly still, will the rest of the world stop with me, _his sub-conscious mind queried. "Huh?" he murmured to himself. _It's almost __**Time**_, the inner voice continued. "What?" he whispered. _**Time's **__ending –_ _**Time **__is almost up,_ his sub-consciousness replied in a matter-of-fact tone. "Where did that thought come from," he whispered once again to himself. Had he been thinking of 'The Gathering'? Duncan straightened and shook his head once then paused. Was he sensing something now? The sounds of the traffic in the street beyond the buildings were barely heard – a breeze was moving lightly through the branches of a nearby tree – the sound of the day was a faint whisper on the wind. There was no 'sense' of anything pressing. He shook it off. His Katana lay sheathed in its scabbard in the back seat. He opened the trunk, then the back door. Absently he reached for the handle of his sword. His hand gripped –,

_*** Feathers! ***_

He withdrew his hand in a lightning fast reflex action. Then stopped and stared at the handle of his oriental weapon – _nothing._He leaned in the door and peered closely at it. Had he just seen something there? Had a bird flown in the open window? Had it just been sitting on the handle of his sword? His hand gripped the handle and he withdrew it from the car. There was nothing unusual now. He blinked. _Is this what stress does to people – plays tricks with their eyes._ Placing the sword in the trunk, he closed the lid. An instant later his immortal empathic senses were on 'alert'. He turned searching for the source. Then he sniffed – puzzled. _I have always known I can sense another immortal, but can I now also smell them?_ Whoever it was, they were 'on fire'_ – no – _his mind corrected him, _not on fire, smoldering._

"Well, thought I'd find you back here, laddie," came the bright, exuberant voice of Hugh Fitzcairn. "Tried the front shop door – blasted thing was locked up tighter than the Crown Jewels. Don't know how you think you're in business if you keep you're bleed'en business door locked when it's this beautiful out." He waved his pipe in the wind to further reinforce his affirmation of the 'glorious day', then took a puff. "Customers running all over themselves shopping on a day like this."

"Fitz, I am very glad to see you." Duncan gripped his arm and smiled briefly. "When did you get in State side?"

"Less than a fortnight ago – Oh, two-weeks in the American language now," he chuckled. His timeless complexion, blond curly-wavy hair – cut to above his collar in length, sparkled in the late morning sun. "Any rate, I've come round to see you and that lovely Tessa of yours."

"Bad timing I'm afraid, Fitz."

Taking the pipe out from between his teeth a worried look crossed his brow. "Oh, she's not sick now is she?"

"Afraid it's worse than that – Tessa was shot."

Fitz took hold of his friend's shoulder "She's still alive, isn't she? What's this world coming to when people go about shooting beautiful women like Tessa? Do you know who did it?"

Duncan nodded. "Yes. I have a name. She just got back from the hospital this morning – I left her in the bedroom."

"What!?" he replied, his expression mirroring his statement of astonishment. "What did you leave her in there alone for, man?" And he started toward the door. "I'd better go in and comfort her." Duncan tightened his grip on Fitz's arm, halting his amorous intentions. "Well, laddie – one of us better go in to the poor woman," he replied motioning to the door. Duncan released his arm.

"Maybe I should let you go. That would likely be the end of your amour career. I'm telling you, she is ready to take someone's head, Fitz."

"Not Tessa – not that sweet young thing. She worships the ground you walk on."

"Fitz, believe me when I say, she wants to put me _**under**_ it today. She verbally slaughtered Amanda."

Fitz rolled his eyes, and waved his pipe in Duncan's direction, much to Duncan's disdain of the smell. "Oh, Amanda. That fox is trouble with a capital '**T**'. I thought you knew better than that, Old boy? You can't go around threatening Tessa by bring Amanda in on her 'turf', especially if she's 'wounded', as it were. I'd have had your head off already it were me. She needs to know that she has a 'safety zone' – her '_Holy Ground_' as it were."

"I haven't a clue what you're talking about as usual, Fitz. I didn't bring Amanda, she – well – brought herself with Richie. He became immortal trying to protect Tessa from the shooter."

Fitz folded his arms; his pipe perched against his left sleeve, all trace of jocularity gone. He gave Duncan a calculating stare. "What's been going on here recently, Duncan?"

Duncan looked to the ground then away. "It's complicated, Fitz. I'm not sure I have assimilated everything that's happened over the past week and then some, not yet."

"You look like a man with too much on his mind. It's time to share. Come on," And he motioned to the car. "If Tessa's safe inside, you're going to drive us somewhere, where we can talk this out. Two heads think clearly – a clouded one does not."

Duncan nodded and they took off. Fitz insisted on a quiet café by the water – anywhere. Water was relaxing.

"That's all I know, Amanda," Richie, said between bites of his shortbread bar outside the café. "Officer Maxim said the kid gunned him down like a pro. That was no junky and no coincidence that he was in the area either, I bet."

Amanda thought for a long moment. "So where are you going with this? What's the answer you're looking for?"

"Was that guy working for the kidnapper? And if so, what does he have to do with Mac?"

Amanda shook her head. "Other than he might have been working for him – but he had a gun. You didn't see a blade on him when he attacked you – of course you weren't immortal then, and he wasn't an immortal, or that police officer would have said something to Duncan. This is a twisted plot. I guess what I'm asking is, what do you think is going to happen next – to any of you?"

"I don't know, Amanda. But I've got a bad feeling down deep, and that usually means no good."* * *

Across the street, from a vantage point in front of the café, Officer Kevin Kilgore stopped to check a parked car. Slowly he strolled around the back side and casually looked at the license plate then to the pair of immortals across the street engaged in conversation. Removing his pad he noted the time and made a few notes. As he did, his peripheral vision caught movement by the parking meter. A coin was dropped in, barely registering in his brain.

"You're not needed here," the female voice said quietly, and placed a hand on the lock of the car trunk – exposing her Watcher's tattoo. "I've got this covered."

Kevin looked up at the woman who was standing with her side toward him. She looked away as he glanced up, assuring he did not see her face. Kevin noted she was a little taller than himself, wearing a light-tan summer-weight jacket – wrist length sleeves and matching slacks; a smart looking dove-colored tam was perched on her head at a 45 degree angle. "My immortal is here also," he said, his eyes returning to his notes.

She ambled to the store window and gazed absently. "He is with Amanda – my immortal. It will all be in my report to Joe. You aren't needed here, rookie. I can handle this alone."

Kevin thought for a moment._ I'm not letting this Watcher intimidate me again….She isn't my supervisor…at least I hope not._ He straightened and walked casually beside her then placed a purposeful hand on her arm.

She turned her head slightly and glared at him out of the corner of her eye, but remained silent.

Kevin pulled his jacket back, exposing his police badge. "I have a reason to be here – what's your excuse? Now, to my eye, you're just loitering. That's my immortal over there, and I don't care if you don't think this street is big enough for the both of us to watch. Give me an excuse, and I'll cite you for loitering and 'suspicious circumstances'."

"I beg your pardon!" her voice rose as her one-eyed stare harden.

"And if you give me any trouble here, I'll have you run-in to the station on 'resisting arrest'." Kevin's smile broadened. "Explain that to Joe Dawson," he finished with a smug tone in his voice.

Slowly she peeled her arm out from under his hand. _If looks could kill, Sony, you'd be dead right now! _She thought, but said nothing. "Make sure your report is up to standard and complete," she said quietly. Turning away from him, she walked slowly on toward the next store window.

Kevin smiled to himself. He was not going to let some fellow Watcher tell him what he could do where his immortal was concerned. Kevin considered. _Maybe I should be sure I've crossed all my __**'T'**__s and dotted all my __**'I**__'s in my report. I may be up for a performance review faster that I can imagine!_

The wind played softly through his blond locks, as Fitz looked casually out across the water. The gentle waves lapped against the café's dock-side veranda as he absently he took another sip of his coffee. Fitz listened, without comment as Duncan revealed the events of the past week to ten days. The shop – an upcoming art show – Tessa's projects – his Incan art contact – the attack on Richie in the store – Tessa's kidnapping – the 'hide and seek' game played by her kidnapper – the mystic message that led him to find the house – the cryptic messages Tessa's kidnapper had parroted to her – the man's death – the shooting – and –.

"That's everything up till now, Fitz. Where do I go with it from here, if anywhere? Is this where it ends? And if not, then why not?"

"What do you think, Duncan?" He set the cup down and scrutinized his friend. "It wasn't that long ago we both had a rather nasty run-in with a Watcher named Horton and his goons. Don't you find it a bit odd that something like this should be happening? Tessa did say the chap was going on about, "…_they always come_..." and the like. That should tell you at least this Old Boy has done this before with other immortals – and they lost their heads. You did say he was mortal?"

Duncan sighed. "I was afraid you were going to say something like that. I didn't have time to get any information about him before the shooting."

"Didn't you tell me you had made a friendly contact within the Watcher's ranks?"

Duncan nodded. "We're on friendly speaking terms. I'm not sure how much to trust the man yet, though he wants to speak with me. Something about a Watcher's code of secrecy. How did he say it – "_We observe and record but never interfere_."

Fitz raised both eyebrows. "I'd say if this man was a Watcher he was doing a whole lot more than just casually interfering. But right now we don't know what he was and we need to. All we know for certain is that he's dead."

"Yah, and there hasn't been a word about it in any of the media outlets." Duncan thought for a long moment. _Ms. Randi McFarland – that eager-beaver TV reporter, would have been all over this story if she had ever gotten wind of it. There is no way she would – or could have, been kept quiet about it._ I am almost 100% certain that no one knows about the dead man in that house – **OR**, the police do, and they are keeping very quiet about it for some reason." He shook his head. "Something doesn't add up, Fitz. I met the immortal police officer that was shot several hours after Tessa was. He is certain the guy was a professional."

"Who is he – the policeman?"

"Ducanus Marcus Maximinus – Duke Maxim he's calling himself now."

"He's legitimate, Duncan. I will stake money on his reputation."

Duncan put up his hands in a, '_you got me_ – _now what_' gesture. "This still all seems disjoined to me. How do I make any sense out of it all?"

"I think you need to get yourself in good graces with that friendly Watcher and find out if that dead man was a Watcher, and more importantly, if he had a companion – your mysterious shooter." He pulled his pipe out of his pocket and put the mouthpiece between his teeth, unlit. "There's a remote possibility that the two events were separate -."

"I wouldn't bet my life on it now," Duncan replied and picked up his cup for a sip.

"Oh, it isn't your life, laddie you'd be betting – it's Tessa's if our guess is wrong - dead wrong."

Duncan stopped in mid motion and set the cup back down.

"It's more than a fair bet that Tessa was a deliberate target – it's Richie that was the 'random element'. We need to find that shooter, Duncan – and fast. Tessa's life is still on the line."

Tessa stood in stunned silence. She could hear Duncan walking away from her – through the house and out the door – slamming it in his wake. Her legs failed her and she sat down on the edge of the bed. _What have I done? What is wrong with me?_ A small voice inside spoke up. _"You're defending your right to exist in this space, this __**Time**__. Amanda is an intruder, an __**immortal**__ intruder..."_

"**Enough**!" she exclaimed out loud in the stillness of the room. "Whoever – whatever part of me is acting out, I am sick of hearing about '**Time'. **I am here – **now**, and this is my time with Duncan – **now stop it! **Do you hear me**!**" She placed a worried hand to her lips, her cheek – she caught a strand of her hair and wrapped it around her finger nervously. "Tessa, you're a lot smarter, and stronger than you're giving yourself credit," she continued her stern self-reprimand, unabated. She knew time was her enemy, but she had no way of fighting it – the battle was already lost, and inside she knew it. "You don't have to shout and throw things at people to make your wishes known." _You're mortal,_ her rational mind affirmed in the stillness_. You were born knowing you would die one day. Duncan's life will go on without you. He is immortal, and you have accepted him into your life as he is – you can't change either of those facts – do you really want to change him? He will not die with you – would you really want him to? You aren't that petty._ She paused to study her reflection in their small bedroom mirror. _I can't believe all of this outburst today has been simply about accepting my eventual death and an immortal replacement for me._ But was it actually death, or growing old by Duncan's side that was still an unresolved issue? _Will there come a time when making love to him will no longer be an option?_ "You're being ridiculous, Tessa – of course not," she spoke, and wrapped her arms tightly about herself, holding herself like a strong security blanket. "People make love until the day they die." _What if I died in his arms at the height of my ecstasy? Complete release – my body and my soul, to him in one act of love?_ Her consciousness paused that train of thought. _You don't have a 'Quickening' to transfer to him, and no immortal can take your soul. This is not within their power – they are not God._ She sat back against the bed and closed her eyes. _You would just die – being in his arms at that moment may be a comfort to you, but you would not become a part of him. You're mortal._ "I can't go on living like today," she whispered. "Go crazy with jealousy every time I see Amanda near him – and what about Grace? Am I condemning myself to spending hours, for the rest of my life, pacing up and down the store like a caged wild animal, wondering which immortal's arms he has been in every time he comes home late? And what about Ceirdwyn? How many times did she lie in his arms, feel his warm embrace – through how many centuries did he make love to her? That woman has existed since around the time when Christ and the Apostles actually walked this earth." A sardonic chuckle escaped her lips. "I should be grateful, not reproachful. If I asked nicely they may be willing to share what they've seen and experienced in this life with me – not dusty dry history from a book, living history, willingly shared, if I would just ask." _If I make a scene like today, every time he arrives home, he'll soon get tired of these scenes and end up hating me and eventually leaving me._ Since the kidnapping she had somehow felt especially vulnerable. Duncan's presence felt strange to her; and, of course there was Amanda. _Why do I keep coming back to her? Duncan has said time and time again, "You're not in competition with her – I've made my decision – stop worrying so much." Can I ever finally accept that Amanda, and the other immortal women, would always be part of his life._ "He needs immortal friends, I have no right to try and change that." She exhaled. "_**Good**__,"_ her rational mind replied. She felt herself reaching a stable level of emotional and psychological 'control' within herself – she was finally beginning to think like the Tessa she knew she always was – strong. A distant conversation - from more than a year ago, and shortly after she had seen him behead another immortal, replayed in her mind …

"Hey Sweetheart," Duncan called. He had been watching her from his office for several minutes, not knowing whether to interrupt her or not.

"Where are you?" Her head came up and she peered around the smooth metal sculpture

"Over here," he mused playfully. "Second star on your right, and straight on to morning," he chuckled, repeating the words from a modern rendition of Peter Pan.

"Ok, Well then I'm just over here – a few light-years ahead of where you're thinking."

"Tess, I didn't mean – ,"

"I know Mac, I know. It just takes time to accept all of what an immortal really is. When I think I am ready to 'graduate' as it were, new things turn up and I just need to readjust my focus."

Duncan folded his arms and leaned on the table. "You are an extraordinary woman, Tess."

"Thanks, but I wish I could be stronger. Sometimes I feel you must be getting tired of all my insecurities."

Duncan rose, crossed the distance between them, then pulled her to "her couch" as she had lately claimed it. Gently, he took one of her hands in his and looked lovingly into her eyes. "That is never going to happen and you know it. Besides, I am the one who should be afraid of you getting tired of the kind of life I have. It is not something I am proud of you know. I do feel tired and sometimes 'short tempered' with all of mortal life's quirks from time to time."

She rotated and leaned into him. He made a place in his arms for her. "I know, but I just see how Grace and Amanda can handle themselves better in situation when I would probably fall apart. Those women have had to swing a sword to stay alive – I can't ever see myself doing anything like that. They're the really brave ones. I can't help but think sometimes that you might be safer and more comfortable with one of them at your side and not me".

Duncan laughed, then stroked her cheek gently. "Tessa, you make me want to come home whenever I have to face a challenge. It is _**YOU**_ waiting for me here – in our home. That's what I think about. Besides, you are much stronger than they are"

"Why do you say that?"

"Because they are immortals. They can't choose what life they want to live; they either challenge other immortals or accept their challenges and fight for their lives or die. There is no other way for them but to go on with the flow. You chose this - and you are therefore faced with this because you are strong enough to fight for our love. You have the power to choose if you want to stay in this strange immortal world. You can leave and have a happy "normal" married life with a man who is going to grow old with you, have children with you, and who would certainly not leave the house with a sword in the middle of the night to behead another immortals. In my book, you are the strongest woman I have ever met."

She sat up straight with a new sense of renewed spirit. When had she stopped remembering that conversation? She smiled to herself. "I'm going to be ok," she whispered. "All will be ok now." Placing her hands on the bed cover she pushed herself up to her feet. "Duncan," she called, "Duncan, wait a moment," and started toward the bedroom door.

Suddenly, a violent rush of emotion seized her – _**Anger! Hate! Despair! Dread**_**! **"_**The end of Time!" **_She heard those last four words as if they had been shouted in her ear. Grabbing her head and ears as if it were a blast of sound that had hit her like a freight train, a shriek escaping her lips.

Like a flood bursting forth from a weakened dam, images and emotions poured into her mind, torturing her body and soul with their razor sharp, barbed, dark sensations. She collapsed to her knees as the onslaught continued; filling her with an internal rage and frustration beyond anything she ever believed she was capable of enduring.

"_Let it out!"_ Her soul cried, "_Or it will overwhelm and kill you!"_

"_**Time's almost up**__!" _she heard in her head once again.

The alien palatable emotion seized her throat and shook her until she gasped for breath.

"_**Speak me out!"**_ It demanded.

But she could not. Try as she might she could not utter a single sound. "_Something wicked this way comes,"_ her subconscious mind retorted as she recoiled – overwhelmed with panic. "_You're an artist, you speak through your hands, let it out that way!"_ her subconscious mind coaxed.Crawling to a small bedroom night stand, she reached up and pulled her sketch pad from it to the floor. _"Light – I need light for my hands to 'speak'," _her inner voice pleaded with the alien emotion to give her leave to reach the bed. Taking a deep breath she lunged against the covers, threw the sketch pad on the bed, then hoisted herself up and on to the soft covers. Her artist sketch pen was clipped to the side of the pad. The fingers of her right hand ripped it off, and flipped the book open to the first page.

A lovingly rendered full face sketch of Duncan, gazing benevolently off the page, met her eyes. Unexpectedly her left hand grabbed the center of the page, clawing the paper together, and ripping it from the book. Then she began to draw – not with slow, tentative, creative strokes that an artist uses to start a work; but with frantic, hard strokes – as if the pencil were a knife in her hand and she were trying to 'cut' a picture out of the page. Her hand moved relentlessly fast. A half an hour of constant, near maddening, stabbing, stroking, scraping sounds followed.

_Is it ever going to stop?_ She thought._ I'd rather be working in the middle of the JFK's runway without ear protection than this having to listen to this pencil scratching, clawing at this paper._ Something had taken possession of her hand – something – no,_** some presence**_ – an evil spirit that would not let her go.

Lines formed and intersected on the page – hard, deep, black lines – a shape – a human form – a face was emerging – Duncan's face. It was hard, stark, distant, unshaven, tired, worn, and a hundred other things she had never seen him as at any time he had ever been with her. This was another Duncan from another time. _What is he wearing – a blanket? Something with and odd checkered pattern formed over his worn body. Old, he looked so old, but that can not be – he's an immortal! What in hell – or __**from Hell**__, is my hand drawing_?

"_Or carving?"_ her inner voice replied entreating the question from her other-half, inside. Each stroke of the pencil on the paper was now like a stab. "Who am I stabbing_?"_ she said out loud. "Duncan? - What is this thing forming in the background?"

"_**A sword – you need a sword**__," _the violent emotion prodded her conscious mind painfully.

"**No**," she cried – the sound which had escaped her throat was one of pure desperation.With all the swords in the shop she was not going to put one in her right hand – not now – not with the violence reveled in those pencil strokes.

Her left hand dropped the pad to her lap and gripped the bed covers. _No one and nothing is going to make me get up and get a sword!_ She thought fiercely. Shoving her back against the bedstead, she willed herself not to move from that spot; all the while, her right hand drew – stabbed – cut – slashed, marked that piece of paper.

"Stop," she pleaded hoarsely. "Please stop!" But there was no stopping it the relentless motion – no way out. She felt trapped by her hand – trapped in some 'B' grade horror film. With all her strength, her left hand reached and wrestled the pencil from her right hand, then threw it on the bed. No sooner had it landed then the fingers of her right hand cramped, and groped back toward the pencil, finally grabbing it.

The pain was agony! She slammed the point into the paper breaking it off. _Finally,_ she thought _– this will end this drawing._

But it didn't! Her hand now moved across the page in straight geometric lines – the paint on the pencil itself became the led, flaking off and smudging into the paper with each forceful stroke. Unconsciously, she bore down heavily on the page with a wide stroke – the skin covering the small joint of her guide-finger skinned itself raw across the paper, adding her blood to the image of the sword that was evolving independent of her own will.

_Duncan's katana – a fitting place for the color red! _ She thought.

_**Now what's coming**__? _Her crippled pencil and bloody finger circled round. _Oh no – __**not another damn clock**__! _

She fought to stop, fought for control – and lost. Instinctively she knew it was a _**'clock' **_that was forming on the page, but this wasn't any clock she had ever seen. There were only symbols but no hands. In the center was an angry face - staring out at her. Eyes that had seen the beginning and end of many 'times'. She did not understand, she was not sure she wanted to. This 'clock' was more fearful to her than all the rest she had ever seen in her mind!

"_**Time's almost up!" **__ it shouted._

With the last symbol on its ponderous face, the malevolent feeling finally spat the last of its fire out onto the paper – the bloody pencil dropped freely from her hand. She drew a deep breath – the deepest one she had taken since this entire ordeal began. Marked with colors of gray, yellow, and red, the pad lay in her lap. Exhaling, she looked upon a foreign image – one she certainly had not, by her conscious will, wrought. Exhausted, she collapsed back onto the pillow and closed her eyes. There was nothing left inside herself to give.


	9. Chapter 9

Slowly, and very carefully, Duncan lifted the sketch pad that lay across Tessa then retrieved the remnant of the art pencil. He turned it over briefly in his hand. It, and the paper, bore the distinct marks of blood on the page. Quickly he set them down in a nearby chair then peered all around Tessa, without touching her, to see what had been bleeding.

_Her hand – no – a finger. She scraped her finger working at this - whatever._ His mind registered this minor injury and he decided not to touch her to care for it. _Let her sleep – it's the best medicine for her now_. Carefully folding the soft, thick, bed cover over her he slowly pulled it up to her chin and tucked it in. Gathering the sketch pad, and crumpled piece of paper, he sat down to ponder it.

Without fully opening the crumpled piece, Duncan knew it to be his portrait done in the studio evening light. Tessa had been working on it a week or so before the kidnapping.

_She must have been very angry with me to have destroyed it. She's never done anything like this before. Tess has always said when you create something with your hands, the moment it __**'becomes'**__, you have 'breathed life' into lifelessness. _Duncan pondered what she was feeling that would have made her wish to destroy the 'life' she had given that page. Placing the paper on the side of the nearby nightstand, he focused on the pad.

Duncan was not a sensitive artist like Tessa, however even he couldn't ignore the sheer starkness and raw violence of the strokes that had made this –_ what was she trying to depict on this page?_ He knew Tessa to be a very accomplished artist, something he admired her for so deeply. But this 'style of art' was something completely different for Tessa. It was a type of abstractness he had never known her to do. Turning the page around several times he settled on one viewing angle and began studying it. The things she had drawn in the picture were reasonable distinct in and of themselves, but the picture was a montage of sorts.

_A massive staircase – no – not a staircase, a sort of building – A wheel with a face inside – something black, it looks like a human form near that man – _ His eyes focused on the man – _It's me! She has drawn me – but – she's never seen me like this. She's drawn me wearing a tilmatli. The last time I was wearing a tilmatli____was in –_

**Flashback - 1830**

Duncan and his guide, Paco, had been trekking into the unexplored back areas of the Peruvian jungle, looking for undiscovered ruins, when they had been captured by people his guide insisted, "…Should not be in this area." They had been taken to their 'god' – Gavriel Lorka, a Portuguese immortal from the early 15th century. Lorka, raving mad with the desire for power, had offered the mortal Paco as a sacrifice to appease the 'evil spirits' causing the 'jungle fever' in the tribe. Failing to halt the fever with this sacrifice, Lorka attempted to take Duncan's head, only to be shot with a curare-dart by one of his disillusioned followers, and then entombed in solid rock. Duncan had escaped, but 'died' briefly from 'jungle fever'. Without food or water, he tried to make his way back to civilization (episode: 'Little Tin God'). Disoriented in the dense jungle, he walked on for weeks – living on meager plants, small reptiles, and insects he managed to catch, until he finally walked out of the dense growth and into a rocky landscape with relatively sparse vegetation near the Inca ruins of Ollantaytambo**.**

The well-trodden path in the Peruvian foothills was dusty dry, and the April winds, cascading out of those hills were strong. All about his legs, with each step he took, fine rust colored grit swirled then disappeared into the wind. It was coming into winter in the South American hemisphere and the nights at the altitude, he knew he must be, were cold for a man wearing tropical clothing and atilmatli (blanket/cloak made of cactus fiber). After weeks of no one in site, his only interest was in finding another human being.

It was evening when he saw the first signs of civilization on the road in front of him – a man and woman with a donkey cart. _Yes, they spoke Spanish – _the wheel had slipped off the axle. _Slide it back on – hammer a chunk of wood into the axle to hold it - fixed for now._ The couple was very grateful for his help._ Where were they going? Could he travel with them?_ They were returning to their home near Ollantaytambo with supplies. _Well, he thought, at least he hadn't walked clear out of Peru when he was lost! _Duncan stayed with the family, sharing their hospitality for several days, until he met an Englishman in the area with a sketch pad.

"We're miles from a seaport and a respectable cup of tea," Duncan said lightheartedly, as he walked up to the man who was sporting British field attire. The gentleman turned from his work and folded his pad. "Duncan MacLeod," he said, pushing his brown-rust colored tilmatli aside for the handshake.

"Hayward Lawrence," the young man replied and quickly reached for and shook Duncan's hand.

"Are you an artist? You're a long way from the fashion center of the world." Duncan asked.

"An artist – yes, and this is the 'fashion center' so to speak. It's where I belong." He flipped open his sketch pad revealing page after page of crisply rendered drawings of various ruins. "Until that blasted contraption, called a camera, is perfected they still need people in the graphic arts – like me. I'm out here to capture what it really looks like before it gets carved up and carted away by some university."

Duncan shifted his position so he could see the sketch. Putting a hand over his brow to shade his eyes, he looked up the steeply stepped embankment into the ruins beyond. The drawing on that page matched the ruins perfectly. He nodded. "I heard of the camera." He motioned back to the pad. "That's very good work – don't think this camera invention will ever replace people like you. There is real talent here. There will always be a need for art and artists. It's what comes from the soul." He thought a long moment. "What did you mean by, "…_before it gets carved up and carted away_.."? These are ruins of a civilization, not a tree trunk."

Hayward grinned. "So you'd think – and it would seem to be impervious to even time itself – but not so. It has stood since the late 15th century – withstood the onslaught of wind and weather and war, yet if men like him," and he motioned to a small knot of people in the distance, "it will be lifted up, stone by stone, and carted off to a museum in another country."

Duncan shook his head. "Who is he? And what's his business with these ruins?"

"His name is Kawil Redford – out of Oxford, I believe. A broker of antiquity. Travels up and down this side of the continent looking for anything old and of value. Not really interested in gold, I hear tell – it's the art of antiquity that gets his pulse racing, if you take my meaning."

Duncan shrugged. _I think I'll see what art from this area has his interest._ He left Hayward and started toward the group in the distance.

Hayward folded his sketch pad and placed it in its large leather pouch, then he retrieved a leather bound notebook and un-strapping it. He watched Duncan approach the group and made a few notes before re-buckling the binding strap across its cover – a cover with the deep imprint of the **Watcher's symbol**.

As Duncan approached the group, all of a sudden his immortal sense of 'presence' announced that he was drawing close to another of his kind. He slowed as he approached the knot of people. _Which one was it? There had to be at least 20 people in that group – a number of them had machetes tied to their belts._ As he stood by, waiting, the group slowly dispersed until one man remained. He walked purposefully up to Duncan.

"I am Kawil – Kewil Redford these days."

"Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod."

Kawil looked him over. "That's a Scotsman's name. You're a long ways off from your home and clan. Did you travel all this distance to come for my head?"

"No – I haven't come for anybody. I'm here to view the ruins. I hear tell you deal in antique art?" Kawil shifted his stance as Duncan scrutinized him.

_Here was a man in about the mid five-foot tall range – a dark olive complexion – straight brown hair, braided neatly into a single braid down his back, whiskerless, smooth oval face and piercing brown eyes. His physical features could fit anyone of a dozen different ethnic groups from Mexico, through parts of South America. He was virtually timeless. His clothes were native – hand stitched local fabrics in earth tones – shirt, a pullover – trousers, knee length with leg wrappings and a stiff moccasin shoe – a semi bowler-shaped hat, walking stick, machete, and dark rust-colored tilmatli completed his outfit._

"Indeed I do," and he looked to the ruins. "There is much cultural art here – a kings ransom many times over – if you know where to look. I'm scouting around for a few good men to help me retrieve some of it before the rest of the world discovers it's hiding places."

"Selling off your own culture," Duncan said with noticeable disdain in his voice. "Your culture and the treasures thereof belong to the children's children, many generations down from those who created it. It should remain with them."

Kawil grinned then chuckled once then shook his head. "I've heard that line before – purest sentiments. Leave 'nature' where it's found. Only that doesn't put gold in your pocket or you in a palace." He motioned in the general directions of North and South. "I lived during the time when civilizations all up and down this continent rose from the dust of the ground – laid each of these stone one upon the next – wrestled gold and gems from the earth, then fought over them and died. I know what they created, where they hid it, and how to get to it. So now that there's real interest in owning it, I'll retrieve it or take hunters to it for a price. These 'treasure hunters' only trample themselves looking for it. Beside, it's not my culture – we're 'cousins', so to speak."

"Where are you originally from?"

"It was a village near what is call _Chichen Itza_ - in the Yucatan. I am a Mayan."

**The Present**

Duncan blinked, his mind returning to the here and now. He refocused his eyes on the drawing. Tessa had drawn him, and his clothing, with inexplicable, and impossible, accuracy during a time period when she could not have know what he would have looked like - Peru, 1830. _But that's impossible! _ his mind corrected him. _ There is absolutely no way Tessa could have ever seen my likeness then - my clothing down to the buckle on that pouch attached to my belt - it's perfect – but how? I kept nothing from this period or place. _His eye followed the lines of the structure behind him in that scene. _She's also drawn __**El Castillo**__ (the castle) – the Temple of__** Kukulkan**__, deity of the Mayan people – ok, _he took a deep breath and allowed his rational mind to organize and bring his imagination under control. _She could have seen this somewhere – TV, on the computer, a book – somewhere. At least this much of it could make sense._

The fainter outline of the Mayan calendar, superimposed over the temple, confirmed the culture and origin of this piece of the montage.

_But what is this?_ A dark, faceless, humanoid-shaped figure – with what appeared to be a raised blade in its outstretched limbs, stood behind a severed stone head of Kukulkan – _he's also __**behind me**__!_ A small shiver shot down his spine as his eyes traced the line of sight between that faceless specter and the drawing of himself._ Is he after me, or what is being pictured here? Has she drawn my death? What's in my hands?_ The object, which should have been his sword, looked only vaguely familiar as a sword, except for the handle. _It has red and yellow __**feathers **__– I'm gripping a feathered sword?_ Tessa's blood streaked across the image at that spot adding an all too real touch of life – _Or death? For whom? What is this picture really saying? Two people - one's me - a temple - a beheaded statue - the Mayan calendar - so much darkness on this page - dark lines and rips everywhere - Tessa's blood across this sword - _He shook his head 'No', as he considered the poignant symbolism - _her blood __**is **__on __**my **__sword!_

Duncan sat up straight in the chair. This picture had become far too weird and unnerving for his taste. This drawing - this mental imagery - whatever it was, wasn't Tessa - it couldn't be. Slowly he rose, walked quietly from the bedroom, closing the door behind him. He picked up the phone in their living room and dialed the hospital - Dr. Grace Chandel.

_It's time I shared everything with her about what happened that night - and her with me about what happened with Tessa when the two of you were alone._

**Section 15 **

_**And as she slept, Tessa began to dream…**_

Something – an unfamiliar sensation roused Tessa from sleep. At first she resisted opening her eyes. She reached to pull her plush bed cover closer to herself, like a kitten kneading – her hand felt beyond the cover to – cold stone! Her eyes snapped open at the touch and she glanced around.

_I'm no longer in my bedroom – my bed._ The surface beyond the cover was unexpectedly hard. She sat up, then pulled the bed cover back and stared.

_The strange clock – I'm laying on the face of that clock._ She got to her feet, and then reflexively, looked back behind herself.

_I see my bed, my bedroom - my world – it's just through that opening. Am I in the next room?_ Something told her she wasn't – she hadn't left her bedroom – she had left her _**reality**_.

_If I reach out I can touch our bed._ She put out her hand only to touch – _a barrier? _There was something over that opening. She felt around the strange gray film.

_This barrier has holes – no – rips! I'm on the other side of my drawing – inside the paper!_ Something was drawing her back into this world of graphite, paint and blood – _my blood seals the door_.

Before her stood a massive stone building, shaped like an infinitely tall staircase on all four sides. Before, and to either side of the staircase, large dragon-like stone beasts stood guard. As she watched, a human-shaped, featureless figure descended the stone stairs. Nearing the bottom of the staircase it paused.

Glancing casually to her side she saw Duncan beside her. As she watched he walked purposefully to the based of the stairs to stand between the statues. Raising the object in its hands it advanced toward him – but Duncan didn't move. The dark figure swung, striking the head of one of the statues, beheading it!

The stone head rolled to a stop by Duncan's feet, yet he did not move. The sky and surroundings grew ominously dark, lightning sprang from the top of the building, and a deep rumble arose from within its depths.

_This is Holy Ground – an offence has been committed here. Duncan will not fight him here – No!_ _Duncan Run! He'll take your head here! _

She fought to move, to run to him, to intervene, to push him out of the way. But her dream would not let her move toward them. Tessa struggled with herself and watched helplessly as the figure advanced, sword raised.

Suddenly the second statue coiled up from its repose, positioning itself between them, halting the pair. As she watched, the scene froze, and slowly began to fade into the background.

As she stood pondering what she had just witnessed, Tessa felt a dark presence behind her and slowly turned. _Dark – ominous – it's coming for me – run!_ _I can't move!_ Instinctively she knew she was going to die and she was powerless to prevent it.

Something moved next to her, just at the edge of her peripheral vision – closer and closer it came until it was by her side. She turned her eyes away from what she knew was impending certain death and saw – _a large feathered snake!_ Coiling, it reared up until it was eye level with Tessa, its bright red and yellow feathers flared out from its long graceful head and neck, its tongue licking the air in reptilian fashion.

Tessa recoiled momentarily from the strange reptile, then, against her will, she found herself reaching out with her open hand toward it, expectantly. The snake slithered across her open hand, and her hand closed on its neck. It stared up and into her eyes, knowingly.

"_**Strike!"**_ It commanded.

Tessa shook her head. "I don't understand," and glanced back toward the menacingly dark figure advancing steadily toward her.

"_**Strike!"**_ It commanded once again.

She looked down toward the feathered reptile in her hand – it was now straight – stiff – lifeless. _It's Duncan's sword._

Duncan pressed his ear to the receiver. Had he lost the connection? There was a long pause at the other end of that phone where Grace was.

"Duncan, what were you thinking?" Grace's voice was sharp. "Kidnapped? Of course Tessa was traumatized by that maniac and then when she finally thought she was free she was shot and nearly killed. Why didn't you tell me this in the first place? It all makes so much more sense now."

Duncan shrugged helplessly, though he knew Grace couldn't see his actions through the phone. "Too much had just happened to us all, Grace. Within a space of less than 15 minutes, I was in a bizarre 'lights out' fight for my life – I killed the kidnapper, found Tessa and sent her to the car with Richie – they had just left the house, I had just found his computer and was trying to get some information - anything at all about him, when I heard two shots ring out. Grace, the situation went from the 'frying pan to the fire' too fast for me to think of anything but keeping her from dying."

Grace gave a heavy sigh. "Ok, I forgive you, Duncan. But as I see it there are two issues here now."

"Two? You've lost me. Tessa's mental state is the only one I am worried about. She has lost her temper in a way that is – well – just not Tessa. She was shouting at Amanda and Richie over next to nothing – she hit Amanda with her scarf – and this drawing – Grace, what it is suggesting is so 'dark', I am honestly a little afraid when I look at it."

"She's a sensitive, passionate artist – she communicates with her hands. The 'darkness' on that paper is a healthy release. It's good she is getting it out so it can be seen in the 'light' of day. Talk to her, Duncan. Encourage her to speak about what she has drawn. It will help her to heal, mentally - emotionally."

Duncan shook his head. "This is not simply a mental pressure release or escape – there is nothing healthy on this page. This is something else happening here – I can't explain it to you, or myself, except to say Tessa has drawn the impossible – she has drawn me, exactly as I was in 1830 in Peru – clothes and all - down to the last detail, and there is no way she could have known this. This wasn't just an educated guess – this is perfection."

"Is that all that's on that page," Grace pressed.

"No, she has also drawn the Temple of Kukulkan, at Chichen Itza, in Mexico - the Mayan calendar - a faceless figure that appears to be preparing to behead me. Her blood is part of the picture."

"What do you mean? Blood? What did she do, what is happening in the drawing?"

"It looks like she scraped her finger drawing my sword - well - it really isn't, my sword in this drawing - if you want to call it that. She must have been stabbing at that page with her pencil – there are rips everywhere – so much violence poured out on this sheet."

"An artist can be very passionate, and that word doesn't always mean love. Art can be expressed in violence as well. Apparently you have never seen that side of Tessa. How does that make you feel?"

"Afraid - very afraid."'

"For Tessa – or yourself?"

"What do you mean?"

"You heard me Duncan. Are you afraid that the violent passions inside Tessa, the ones she used for that art, could overwhelm you someday?" There was a very long pause at the other end of the phone. Now it was Grace's turn to wonder if she had lost the connection. _Ah_, y_ou have just stepped outside of your comfort zone where women are concerned. To you, a woman has always been a delicate creature, filled with love or at least the need to be needed. You really rarely – if ever, have taken a woman's head! Now a mortal woman couldn't possibly approach your potential for raw violence in the heat of passion, or battle, could they? _She mentally made a note, then continued as if she hadn't noticed the pause. "Tessa is 'fighting' someone or something. This came out during the Guided Imagery session we had."

"Guided imagery? Is that hypnosis?" Duncan asked

"No. Guided imagery is a subtle, gentle, but powerful technique to relax one's mind, inhibitions, and get down into thoughts and experiences that need to come out or be reinforced. It can be a form of physiological therapy too. You can use sound, smell, objects, or all three as a trigger. These things focus and direct the thoughts, and imagination as well, as becoming the vehicle. We call it "visualization" or "mental imagery", it really uses all the senses though. The end result is that it can activate the whole body, the emotions and the inner psyche. It can make a lasting, powerful impact."

"What happened? What did you do?"

"I placed her into a relaxing environment – quiet, darkened room. Then I gave her various objects to hold, based on what her body language, and a few verbal hints told me. I caught a few whispered words as she created and visited these scenes in her mind. 'Time' is a repeating theme for Tessa. She is in a 'fight' with _'Time', _or someone connected to it. It doesn't take a genius to figure out who that might be either. Her mortal life is measured by minutes on a clock, and the man who shot her represents the 'time thief', stealing her precious 'time' with you, away."

"She said that?" Duncan was given pause by the depth of Grace's words.

"She acted it out, she whispered the words, and tried to destroy the 'clock' ticking away her time, with my sword in her hand."

"What!? Grace, what were you doing giving her a sword in that room?"

"Calm down Duncan. Tessa didn't hurt herself – startled, shocked maybe when she realized what she was doing, but there was no harm done to anyone. If anything it brought her suppressed feelings closer to the surface. She responded rather angrily toward me afterward, but I don't worry about things like that when there is this kind of trauma. If you would please let Tessa know, as she heals, that I don't hold any anger she felt for me against her. We're still ok."

Duncan wiped his face with his free hand. _This conversation with Grace is also a bit weird, _he thought. "You said there was something else – "two issues'?"

"Beside Tessa, I see a very real possibility that the man who shot her could be connected with her kidnapper. Duke and Sandy – the officers you met in the hospital – neither of them believe this was a junky. If that is true, they need to be made aware of the kidnapping. This might change everything in the investigation."

"There is one problem with that, Grace. I killed the kidnapper with my sword. Now how do I explain the bizarre circumstances that are surrounding that?"

Grace thought for a long moment. "I don't know, Duncan. I honestly don't know. Maybe talking to Duke alone – I just don't know. One thing I do know is, if I'm right, and the shooter knows Tessa or Richie are still here, he isn't going to want to leave any witnesses alive. For Tessa sake let someone, who can help track that guy down, 'In'."

"**DUNCAN!"**

The shout from the bedroom brought him to his feet in a microsecond. He never bothered to hang up the phone, he just dashed to the door – threw it open, and was by Tessa's side – pulling the comforter around her – taking her into his arms, unconditionally.

She grabbed for him – held him close – kneaded the warn shirt in her hands until her fingers felt his flesh below. "Oh God, Duncan – you're alive, and you're here now." Then she glanced away, through the open bedroom door, into infinity, and took a deep breath. "He's coming for you soon – near the end of time – the Mayan clock! He's going to try and take your head on _**Holy Ground**_!"


End file.
